


Engines

by vertual



Series: Engines [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Basically a Bit of Everything, Canon Compliant, Canon Continuation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Post-His Last Vow, Romance, Sherlock Is Not Okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 13:23:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2549048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vertual/pseuds/vertual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is tasked to close the book on Jim Moriarty once and for all, but the consulting criminal and his own fate are hardly the only things on the detective's mind. Direct continuation from HLV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock watches the ground approach out the window of the plane, a strip of grey surrounded by the muted green of winter grass. The flash of hope he felt when Mycroft told him he was needed dissipated almost immediately after the line went dead, leaving the monotonous dial tone to keep him company until the steward came to retrieve the phone.

_England. What kind of explanation is that?_

As the tires hit tarmac and the plane slows to a stop, Sherlock realises he feels ill. There’s no way he’s getting off this easy; they’ll get him to solve whatever trivial problem they’ve managed to land themselves with and then shove him back on the plane without a thank you.

He accepted his fate the instant he squeezed the trigger. It won’t be a surprise when it happens. It makes no difference that Magnussen was a vile, disgusting creature or that Sherlock had acted to protect people; he took a life, and he earned the punishment.

He is escorted back to earth in silence, pushed forward by the hand on his shoulder leading him to Mycroft’s car. John and Mary are nowhere, but the lone vehicle hasn’t moved from where it sat five minutes previous; they’re waiting for him in the back seat as he’s practically thrown in the open door.

Mary steadies him from the middle seat as the door is slammed behind him and the car immediately starts moving. John leans around her and fixes him with a grim smirk. Mary looks more worried than he’s ever been.

“Welcome back, brother mine,” Mycroft says from the seat in front. There’s a hint of derision in his tone that’s different from the one Sherlock normally receives.  “Did you enjoy your flight?”

“Piss off,” Sherlock snaps. He places steadying hands on the door and the back of the passenger seat as the car takes a sharp right turn back toward the city. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Oh, you’ll love it,” John says bitterly.

“John,” Mary whispers.

“Really, fun stuff.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at his friends and registers the tension inside the vehicle. He’s not trying to figure out why he was called back, as guessing the subject of a case is not something that will ever amuse him. He’s not willing to wait, though, so he asks again why he is currently speeding back to London instead of flying out to continental Europe.

Not a word is spoken as Mycroft’s hand moves to the sleeping console in the car’s dashboard and presses a button to turn it on. The screen comes to life and displays a welcome message, and Sherlock can feel the Watsons’ concerned eyes on him.

The words are soon replaced by an image that makes Sherlock’s blood freeze.

The manic, dead eyes of Jim Moriarty stare out at him as a smiling mouth moves up and down tightly like a puppet’s. Letters in bold next to the figure spell out MISS ME? and although there is no sound coming from the moving picture, Sherlock imagines the dead man’s voice repeating the words tauntingly, childishly.

He tries to understand but comes up with a blank. A high-pitched keening echoes from everywhere and spots dance in front of his eyes. His body refuses to move, paralysed by shock.

 _Shock_ , a hollow voice confirms in his mind. _Eleven seconds of consciousness._

A tingling sensation is the only thing that reminds him of the fact that he has hands. Too slowly, his eyes move from the image of the madman, now seared into his memory, to look at the two people beside him. He sees their faces but registers nothing.

_Seven seconds._

His gaze returns to the screen as the marionette mouth bounces over and over and over again. Behind the mental countdown is a vague awareness that if he doesn’t lose consciousness, he may empty his stomach all over a government issued vehicle.

_Four seconds._

This isn’t happening.

_Three._

This isn’t happening.

_Two._

This isn’t happening.

_One._

* * *

 

The TV in the office is set to BBC News for the main purpose of presenting a clock in a room where there isn’t one on the wall. It’s always muted except for when it’s tuned to a music channel to provide some background noise to ease the monotony of transcriptions.

Molly had left it on as she got ready to head home for the evening. She was on her way to turn it off when the signal shifted, the face on the screen stopping her in her tracks. She stayed that way for what felt like an eternity, until the eerie voice gradually faded away and the television returned to playing quiet music.

Over the past few years she learned enough about Jim – Moriarty – to know that it was probably not a coincidence that that message appeared when it did. She doesn’t know if it’s for her, or for Sherlock, or for somebody or everybody else, but she’s sure it wasn’t only broadcast on that channel.

It had to be everywhere.

He had been everywhere.

And now here she is, standing stock still in the middle of the basement office, staring at the television and barely seeing it. Something at the back of her mind realises that if anyone else were in the room, they might think she is expecting a different person to show up on the screen to tell her what to do about the last one.

As if on cue, Molly hears the sound of footsteps on the tiled floor, the blunt tapping of heels pulling her back to reality. She quickly skips to the television to press the power button before turning to acknowledge the person approaching the office. Her nervousness would show through any mask she made of her face; she doesn’t even try to fake a greeting smile as she sees the stranger stop just inside the door to flip the light switch.

The first thing Molly notices is that the woman is rather tall; she quickly glances down and notes the black wedge boots with envy, disappointed that her own flat shoes keep her at a very modest sixty-three inches. As her eyes move upwards, Molly notes that the woman’s crisp black suit appears to have been tailored especially to her form, the jacket and trousers cut to accentuate her shape and the midnight blue blouse contrasting the light olive tone of her skin, all in a way that makes Molly very aware of how her mismatched attire must not be doing anything for her benefit. Finally, her eyes move up past the smooth neck until she sees the heart-shaped face with full lips and eyes both the shape and colour of almonds. The woman’s hair is tied back, long auburn waves falling back past her shoulders.

Molly takes in the woman’s appearance quickly, meeting her eyes with an attempt at an expression of unintimidated interest. Her brain has clicked back on and she knows she’s never seen this person before.

“Can I help you?” she asks, giving herself a mental pat on the back for keeping her voice steady.

“Dr. Hooper?” The woman’s voice would be unassuming if not for the hybrid sound of her accent; Molly guesses by the pronunciation of _doctor_ that she might have moved to London from somewhere in America. “I’m here on orders from Mycroft Holmes; he said you’ve met. We have a car waiting outside to take you home.”

Molly raises an eyebrow and examines the woman’s face, searching for any tell that she’s lying. Sherlock gave her a short lesson on reading people during the mid-afternoon lull the day she worked with him after he came back to London, and although she’s not nearly as good at seeing lies on people as he is, she’s fairly confident right now that this woman is telling the truth about her boss. She knows enough about Mycroft from Sherlock’s consistent complaints to assume this is part of his deliberate vagueness.

“I don’t want to go home,” she states firmly. “And I want to know your name.”

“The only other place I’m allowed to take you is to 221 Baker Street where he’ll be depositing his brother within the hour.” The woman’s tone is patient and knowledgeable, and the small smile on her lips suggests that she had been told to expect Molly to be at least a little uncooperative. “And it’s Sarah.”

Molly takes the response for what it is and nods, receiving a smile from the woman called Sarah before she is led toward the lifts.

* * *

 

Mary shouts as she catches Sherlock by the collar of his coat when he slumps forward, eyes half shut. He’s not held back by a seatbelt but it’s still awkward to try to adjust him so he doesn’t fall forward at each bump in the road. She pulls him back against the seat and his head falls on her shoulder.

“Stop!” John yells, reaching for the buttons to roll down both back windows. “He’s passed out, stop the car!”

Mycroft nods to the driver, who efficiently merges left and pulls off the road, stopping quickly but not sharply. As soon as the car is stationary the locks click and John throws himself out his door and slams it, paying no attention to the traffic passing close by as he runs around the back to the opposite side of the car.

He opens Sherlock’s door carefully and places a knee on the seat, leaning in. Mary has one arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and the other is pressing him back against the seat, stopping him from tipping forward. Before John so much as touches the man, Sherlock’s face scrunches up and he groans, turning his face away from the grey light coming in the open door. John thinks he hears a mumbled sentence, but Sherlock is leaning into Mary’s shoulder and the sound is muffled.

“What did he say?” John asks. He places a hand on the side of Sherlock’s neck and registers the almost-normal pulse.

Sherlock’s mumbling voice comes just as quietly the second time, and Mary leans down slightly to catch his words, quietly prompting him to repeat as he slowly becomes more alert.

“What did he say?”

“‘Molly.’ He just keeps saying ‘Molly.’” Mary shifts and looks up at John, fear plain on her face. “D’you think this is because someone found out how he did it?”

John shakes his head but says, “Maybe. I hope not.”

Sherlock tries to push away from Mary as he regains control of his limbs, sliding back against the seat but remaining objectively steady on his own. Heavy lids open slowly to look at the ceiling of the car and he blinks tightly as he takes a deep breath. Mary keeps her hands on him out of caution.

“Well?” Mycroft says impatiently from the front.

“Can’t you wait two minutes?” John barks. He places a firm hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “All right, mate?”

Sherlock turns his head to stare at John, seemingly wide awake and very impatient.

“No. Obviously. Why aren’t we moving yet?”

John raises his eyebrows but shrugs, stepping back to close the door. He jogs back around to get in the other side.

The driver pulls back into traffic as John and Mary continue to scrutinise Sherlock.

“I’m fine,” he says sharply, sitting up straight and reaching back for his seatbelt. “Mycroft—”

“Arrangements are already being made to ensure Miss Hooper’s safety,” Mycroft says immediately. “Contrary to popular belief, I do know how to text.”

Sherlock nods, visibly calming at the fact that the woman who assisted in faking his death is being given high priority. He turns to John. “And you?”

“Oh, we’re going to help you,” Mary says confidently, taking the words out of John’s mouth. “I mean, obviously we’re going to help. As much as we can.”

Sherlock looks at her and his lips curve into a small smile. He nods again and falls silent, turning to watch the world pass by outside the window. John continues to watch his reflection, already seeing the gears turning behind the detective’s tired eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

They park in front of 221 just as the first drops of rain hit the windscreen. Sherlock does his best to look alert as he walks the short distance from the car to the door, but his feet feel strangely heavy. Too slow compared to his train of thought, which is, he knows, already very close to crashing. He wants to sleep but knows he’ll have to start working as soon as more information is presented.

He is exhausted. He wants rest. He wants to wake up and learn this was just a wild dream.

 _You do realise,_ he tells himself, _that if this_ were _a dream, you’d still be on your way to your execution._

Unlocking the door and motioning for John, Mary, and Mycroft to enter first, Sherlock watches as they disappear around the corner of the first landing. His feet won’t move just yet; he stands at the foot of the stairs looking up in meditation. He is about to climb the seventeen steps he was certain he would never climb again. After returning from his mission to dismantle Moriarty’s network, he was keen to get back upstairs and drop into his chair and simply exist as a living person again.

He knew he would be coming back then. This time, it feels wrong.

This isn’t a second chance. It’s taunting.

He takes the steps one at a time, feeling like he’s walking toward a guillotine.

Once upstairs, he makes a beeline for the small green cabinet beside the desk in the sitting room. The lamps are on but outside the flat is dark; curtains closed on the winter sun dropping below the horizon. He feels three pairs of eyes on him as he removes his phone from the top drawer and immediately walks toward the kitchen, sliding open the doors and walking straight through to his bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind him.

No one follows. If he’s needed, someone will knock.

Sherlock sits on the edge of his bed and turns on his phone. He left it assuming he wouldn’t need it again and it takes a moment to power up off the half-empty battery he didn’t bother charging. A peaceful image of the night sky replaces the black loading screen and the notifications quickly follow.

Four missed calls, no voicemails. Twelve texts. He opens these, skimming through the barrage of exclamations and questions from Lestrade, who had probably been enjoying a pint when the telly interrupted some ever-so-important football match. Sherlock sends a quick reply informing the detective inspector that he is at Baker Street already working on it – only half a lie – and closes the conversation. He feels a vague uneasiness creep through his body as he realises Molly hasn’t called or texted. Surely his pathologist would know by now that her life might be in danger?

 _Did you just refer to her as_ your _pathologist?_ the John-voice questions from the back of his mind. _Didn’t know you fancied her like that, mate._

“Shut up, John,” Sherlock snaps under his breath.

He’s not ready to enter the fray just yet; instead he lets himself fall back on the bed, feet flat on the floor. A moment to think might be all he needs right now....

Holding his phone between his palms, he closes his eyes and presses the tips of his fingers to his lips, allowing his mind to take a break someplace far, far away.

* * *

 

The ride from Bart’s is spent in complete silence until, as promised, the black car pulls up in front of Speedy’s. Molly hastily collects her bag from the seat beside her, throwing a quick “thank you” to Sarah and the driver in the front seats before exiting the vehicle. She runs to the door marked 221B to avoid as much of the cold rain as possible, letting herself in the unlocked building.

She takes the stairs as calmly as ever and knocks quietly on the door opening into the sitting room as she enters, depositing her bag on the floor.

John and Mary are here, which surprises her even though she knows it shouldn’t. They stand beside the fireplace talking quietly and turn to smile grimly at her as she enters the flat. Mycroft stands near the desk glaring at the floor, hands in the pockets of a black coat, and when he looks up at Molly, it’s with as much amusement as she has ever seen on his face. She thought he looked serious when she first met him a few years ago; he looks just as austere now.

“Miss Hooper,” he greets in his strangely calm voice. The phone in his hand rings quietly, and he excuses himself, answering the call as he walks out the way she just came in.

Molly drifts toward the Watsons, giving a small wave as she approaches.

“Hi,” she whispers. “Is Sherlock here?”

“Bedroom,” John says. “Lazy git’s already taking a nap. How are you?”

Molly shrugs and looks between him and Mary. “Do you know what’s happening with all this?”

“Apparently they want to make sure everything’s in order before they start doing anything,” Mary informs her. “They’re gathering all the old stuff they can find on Moriarty and sorting through it, and trying to find a source for the video.”

“Can they do that?”

“Don’t see why not,” John continues with a shrug of his own. “Something that big is bound to leave a pretty big boot print, hasn’t it? Either way, Mycroft says nothing can happen until at least tomorrow. He’s not happy.”

“He’s not fond of having the rug pulled out from under his feet,” Sherlock’s voice says from the kitchen. The three of them turn in unison to see the man leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, looking the definition of stern until his gaze settles on Molly. His eyes soften significantly as he asks, “Are you all right?”

Molly nods, smiling as she sees that Sherlock is calm and collected; she doesn’t want to admit that it’s the opposite of what she expected. “Are you?”

“I’m fine.”

Mycroft enters the flat once again, stowing his phone in his coat after the short call. His attention is focussed entirely on Sherlock as he says, “Everything should be in order by tomorrow morning. I’ll send a runner with the files.”

“That’s fine.” Sherlock takes his own phone out of his pocket as it beeps, retreating into the kitchen to respond to the text.

Mycroft nods and turns to the group near the fireplace. “If all of you are ready to leave...”

“I think I’m going to stay a while. I can call a cab later,” Molly says. She looks to Sherlock in the kitchen and calls out, “If that’s okay with Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” His eyes flicker from his phone to her face and back. “Oh, yeah, fine.”

“Onward, then,” Mycroft concludes. He turns and leaves without another word, leaving John and Mary to say a quick goodbye to Molly, and to Sherlock, even though his attention is firmly on his phone.

Sherlock waves inattentively, and not five minutes after Molly entered the flat, the two of them are alone.

* * *

 

Sherlock waits until the sound of footsteps on the stairs has faded before pocketing his phone and turning his attention to the only remaining person in the flat. Molly stands in the exact same spot as when he greeted her, and as she looks up at him, he can clearly see the apprehension on her face.

While everybody else is always concerned about how Sherlock is about to act in any given situation, Molly makes a point of worrying about how he is feeling. If it were anybody else, he might find it tedious and insulting, but he knows that she sees everyone this way. It’s a product of her career, he knows. The corpses on her table are only a collection of parts while she’s working with them; before and after, she sees a person who had a life and a family and emotions. She has a full understanding of people, which Sherlock has come to appreciate.

She had explained it the night he asked her for help in his fall, nearly four years ago now. In the last moments of time they had before the plan was to be put in motion, he asked her to simply talk about her work, and as she left to take her place for the scene, he realised that what she meant by everything she told him was that her knowledge of bodies had still left enough space for her to be able to acknowledge a soul.

It’s an overly romantic notion, he knows, but he’s raw enough to understand the significance.

Nervousness overcomes him again and it brings with it a feeling of intense dread. She’s going to ask about Moriarty, he’s going to tell her where he was at the time and why, and she’s going to run away from him. He’s surprised at how deeply this realisation cuts, as if losing her will actually cause him physical pain.

All these thoughts pass through his mind as he watches her make her way to the sofa to sit at the end nearer the door. _Convenient,_ he thinks, forcing his feet to move in the same direction and seating himself at the opposite end, directly below the yellow smiley face that, on a normal day, would have made him smile back.

He tries to make himself unfeeling in preparation of what he’s about to do. He knows that if he delays his confession at all, Molly will never hear it from him. And that would make it so much worse. If he’s going to see her disgust, he wants to know when it happens.

“You’re not okay,” she says quietly. He doesn’t look at her, keeping her out of his peripheral as he stares fixedly at the corner of the coffee table. “You’re not panicking, but you’re not okay.”

He shakes his head and clears his throat before speaking, deciding to try skipping the introduction to get it all over with. “The last case, the one that I was working on when I...” He’s not sure which part of the mess in September is more worthy of mentioning, the drugs or the bullet, so he settles for gesturing vaguely before locking his hands together again. “It’s over. It fell to bits.”

“I figured it would.” Molly’s voice is patient, not marked with the anger he knows he deserves. “What was it?”

“Blackmailer. Charles Augustus Magnussen. He enjoyed ruining people by finding their weaknesses, preying on their secrets, and exposing them, just to make a point of showing how much he knew. He was going to go after Mary....” He’s comfortable with the compact explanation and leaving out why Mary was involved until the alarm goes off and his stomach drops into his feet. _She’ll notice the verb tense in three, two, one—_

“What do you mean, ‘was’?” she asks slowly.

 _Yes, Sherlock,_ Mycroft’s voice taunts, floating forward from the back of his mind, _what_ do _you mean?_

“Sherlock.” Molly’s voice is calm as she turns to face him squarely, the light brush of fabric being the only sensory indication to correspond to the feeling of her eyes boring into him. “What do you mean, ‘was’?”

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth.

_Nothing for it. Get on with it. Spit it out._

“I had a plan. To get to him, to the records he kept on everyone. But there were never any records. It’s hardly a rare memory technique, storing information in a mind palace, and... I wasn’t going to let him hurt Mary, or John, or anyone else. We were surrounded and there wasn’t time for another option.”

He looks up at Molly, silently pleading for her to tell him to say the words, to verify what she’s coming to realise. She simply looks back at him with the same worried expression as before, except now her eyes are wider and wet with tears about to spill.

He’s never seen her cry even though he knows he’s made her come close to it. It’s painful to watch as she sniffs and looks down at her own hands, even more so when he sees the first drop fall down her nose.

“I’m a murderer,” he declares. The next words come out of an almost instinctual mechanism of defense, one part of him trying to change the subject while the greater part refuses. “It’s been following me since the second I did it, leeching like a parasite. It’s sickening. But as much as I hate it, and myself, for it, I know I’d make the same decision if I were to go back to that moment.”

Molly’s shaky breaths and his own beating heart are the only things that break the deafening silence that follows. He didn’t expect it to be remotely pleasant in any way, not even cathartic; it’s static on the inside, no helpful or demeaning words coming from any of the voices he’s stored away to walk him through various situations. This one is brand new, and all Sherlock can think to do now is to let his head fall into his hands and wait for Molly to digest, and then get up and walk out on him.

“What did they give you?” Her voice is barely a whisper; anything louder and she would probably splutter through the question and give up halfway.

“A decision was made to send me to Eastern Europe for six months to do undercover work for the government. Not as lenient as it might sound,” he adds, “since I was due to be dead before the return flight could be scheduled.”

He risks turning to look up at Molly to gauge her reaction. Her eyes are red as she runs her fingers through her hair, trying to calm herself with the repeated motions. She looks right at him, into him, and instead of disgust, all he can see is sadness. In that moment, he curses his own dry eyes for being unable to react accordingly. He knows he’d be sobbing if his emotions weren’t so wildly out of control right now.

“Are you afraid of me?”

A beat; the short second feels like a century, too much space between words and against the logic he lives by his mind immediately starts running through the scenarios, wondering what exactly he might do if—

“No,” Molly finally says. She lets out an inappropriate titter as she adds, “It’s hard to be afraid of anyone who likes to cuddle my cat more than I do.”

Against his will, Sherlock finds himself chuckling as his face screws itself into what he assumes is a grin, although it feels more like a grimace. The burning dread subsides significantly when he sees her smile kindly; even more so as she shuffles over and boldly pulls him down into a hug.

The moment he feels her arms wrap around his neck, he places his own around her waist, pulling her as close as possible; in their seated position, it doesn’t feel close enough. He’s surprised at how small Molly actually is as his arms wrap around her completely, practically far enough that he’s touching either side of her stomach. He’s never been one to initiate hugs, finding the proximity uncomfortably intimate – Mrs. Hudson is the one extrafamilial exception, his “mum away from mum” as John once put it – but he’s so tense and tired and anxious right now that he’s happy to close his eyes and bury his nose into the crook of Molly’s shoulder.

He recognises the scent uniquely identified as hers: a mixture of the homey scents of aloe, coconut, and cat, with the overlying chemical and clinical smell of hospital. It’s a strange combination, but he does not mind it in the slightest, feeling a calming effect related to the comfort he gains both from working at Bart’s and lounging at Molly’s flat.

He lets her hold him, lets her soothe him from the outside in.

“This is probably a really inappropriate reaction...” she murmurs against his shoulder.

Sherlock hums contentedly as the vibrations of her voice prompt an extra release of neurotransmitters, lulling him back into a peaceful state.

A few minutes later but all too soon he feels her arms loosen, and he finds himself missing the contact as she pulls back, taking the comforting warmth with her. She makes no mention of the fact that Sherlock’s hand is still resting on the small of her back, instead taking his other hand in both of hers. He’s thankful for this small act; he’ll take whatever human contact he can get right now.

_Selfish._

_Sentiment._

As they sit in comfortable silence, Sherlock considers Molly’s hands, noting how small they are compared to his own. He feels a sharp jab in his chest as he opens his hand and Molly’s fingers entwine with his, her free hand moving back to rest in her lap.

He risks a glance at her face and he sees the familiar sincere smile that he associates with her approval. It surprises him to see that expression in the context of the confession he just made, and he quickly drops his gaze.

 _God, you’re like a bloody teenager!_ John mocks. _Just grow a pair and say something, idiot._

“Molly...”

“It’s okay,” she says softly. “I know you don’t do this with... people. But whatever you need right now, I’m here, all right? Right now, you need company more than I need time to think about the reason.”

He wants to respond, calmly or sharply or however he can manage to get it out, but his mouth is firmly clamped shut, as if his body is preventing the expulsion of word vomit. He knows exactly what he wants to say, though, and it aggravates him that he can’t just _vocalise it_.

So he does what he did the last time he couldn’t get the words to her: Sherlock leans forward and places a kiss on Molly’s cheek, praying to any god who might be listening that she’ll somehow hear what he doesn’t say.


	3. Chapter 3

_This is so wrong._

It’s such a bad idea and she knows it, but it’s never been in her nature to put herself first when someone she cares about is so clearly in pain. She knows something will happen eventually and she’ll end up being hurt again, and it will be bad enough that there won’t be any coming back from it. The damage will be irreparable and they’ll both be cracked, and by then she won’t have it in her to try and fix him when she sees his brokenness.

Because he _will_ be broken. She’s seen him confront loss before, and although she’s only one brick in his wall, he’ll still notice the hole.

She is certain of all of it, but decides it’s a problem for the future. Right now, he needs someone.

Molly’s mind drifts back to the present as she watches the light begin to change outside the window, a reminder from her friend the sun of the hours of sleep she ignored in favour of keeping watch over a sleeping detective.

A detective who is currently laying half on top of her on the sofa, long legs tangled with hers and arms not uncomfortably around her waist. His head rests above her breast, his hair brushing against her neck as she runs her fingers through the dark curls, her other arm around his shoulders holding him close out of some kind of nurturing instinct.

Sherlock sleeps soundly, the warmth of his body and his steady breathing the only real indication that he is alive at all. He doesn’t twitch in his sleep, doesn’t mumble, doesn’t grind his teeth or snore; Molly guesses that he is already too stressed for his mind to bother forming any kind of nightmare to disturb him. Still, she stayed awake all night just to make sure she could be there to put him back to sleep if he needed it.

She never expected to be quite this close to the man, even back when she fancied him like a sad schoolgirl. That had simply been fascination and hero worship; as their working relationship developed into a proper friendship she learned how to see him and interact with him. In respecting his physical and emotional circumference, she began to realise that even if she maintained her feelings for him, he couldn’t be the one she actually wanted. She wants someone who would love her back, and she can’t see Sherlock as capable of balancing a relationship against how devoted he is to his work.

That fact doesn’t bother her much anymore. She knows that she means something to him, and she knows she still adores him, but it’s different now. It feels like they decided without communicating to draw a line in the sand, agreeing not to step over it.

But as she continues the reflexive motion of petting Sherlock’s hair, Molly wonders if the way they are right now will count as toeing the line, or if it might be the first brush of erasing it.

It was pretty obvious that Sherlock expected her to run away screaming when he confessed to her what he had done, but Molly wasn’t nearly as disturbed as she could have been. She was able to make a joke to get him to smile, and it was entirely true: she can’t see herself ever being afraid of him. He took a life, which should bother her, but she’s too terrified for him. For his impending implosion. And that concern for her friend overrides the fear she assumes she should be feeling in his presence.

It also doesn’t hurt that he’s currently cuddling her like a child would a teddy bear. _Not scary_ , her little voice confirms.

Sherlock sighs deeply; a sleepy, content sound that Molly knows means he’ll be waking soon. She continues to thread her fingers through his hair and he shifts ever so slightly to wrap himself more tightly around her, just conscious enough to recognise the soothing feeling that lulled him to sleep the night before.

“Good morning, Sherlock,” Molly whispers.

“Molly,” he mumbles in a voice rough from sleep. He’s stayed overnight at her flat before and she’s heard his morning timbre before, but the thick rumble never fails to remind her how attractive his deep voice always is.

“How are you feeling?”

He’s silent for long enough that Molly wonders if he’s dropped back off to sleep. After a few moments, she feels him move, pulling away from her embrace and inhaling deeply as he manoeuvres off the sofa, avoiding putting his weight on her as he moves to stand.

Molly watches him carefully, barely acknowledging his wrinkled clothes and ruffled hair and keeping her eyes on his face. He looks thoughtful, not nearly as distressed as last night, but he avoids looking at her as he moves toward the open doors of the kitchen.

He’s distancing himself already, she realises. She sees the same behaviour half of the times he’s stayed at hers: separating himself from interaction as he enters his thinking mode. Something tells her he’ll be able to handle himself today as she watches him leave the room, and seconds after he’s out of her line of sight, she hears a door close quietly. Deciding that her usefulness to Sherlock has expired and trying not to be offended, Molly leaves the warm comfort of the sofa to gather her things, closing the door behind her as she leaves.

* * *

 

It’s not that he felt the need to escape the question. He just isn’t sure how to answer it. Last night his answer would simply have been _exhausted_ ; he was so completely worn out that he would have been content to fall asleep on a pile of rocks.

Waking up in Molly’s arms was... surprisingly pleasant. Pleasant enough that that at first, Sherlock was certain he was in the middle of some strange, domestic dream. She was so warm, her touch so comforting, her morning greeting so calm that it seemed as if it was a regular habit for them to be so close. It would not be difficult for Sherlock to confess that the previous evening had been about shock and stress and that he would be eternally thankful for Molly’s contact, but if anyone were to ask, he would not tell them that her warmth and the feeling of her fingers in his hair and the steady rhythm of her breathing were the most comforting things since the first night after twenty-nine months of not sleeping in his own bed.

But the moment that damned question so innocently passed through her lips, the realisation that the previous day had genuinely happened came flooding back in, filling the restful bubble around the sofa so quickly and effectively that it burst almost immediately. It left Sherlock feeling sick all over again, but this time with an added _something_ he didn’t want to voice.

It’s not that he ran from the question. He fled the scene to avoid having to explain his answer.

_Disappointed._

Despite the fact that he has to balance the apparent return of Moriarty against the knowledge that he is still going to be sent off to die in the near future, the thing that Sherlock is most concerned about is his _disappointment_ that the only reason Molly had held him was because she knew he needed human contact, and not because she simply wanted to be close to him.

He never tried to stop himself feeling any kind of sentiment toward Molly, but now the knowledge that not only does he want to be emotionally open with her but also physically close to her is more than a little alarming.

Sherlock Holmes doesn’t do feelings. He doesn’t do intimacy. He doesn’t do _want_.

 _And yet_ , he thinks, _you’ve just admitted to yourself that you want Molly Hooper._

 _So you_ do _fancy her like that_ , John’s voice taunts. _Well done. Now go do something about it._

“Shut _up_ ,” Sherlock murmurs.

He knows this is going to be a distraction for him, and he is overcome with a feeling of frustration as he confronts the possibility of having to cut Molly out while he works on his current case. Keeping her at an arm’s length would be a problem too, though, because he’s certain he’d be thinking about her safety the entire time she’s out of eyesight. But then, the farther away she is from him, the less likely she’ll be to be a target....

Clearly, neither having her around nor keeping her away will do any good.

Leaning against the closed door of the still-dark bathroom, he lets his head fall back against the wood with a quiet _thump_.

He returns to thinking about Molly’s question, trying to feel grateful for her concern around the vague annoyance that she seemed to completely ignore the fact that he put someone in the ground in favour of worrying about how he felt about it. Unless she’s just keeping her opinion to herself on that front— _Why would she do that?_ Or if the question was referring to the Moriarty business and how he apparently failed to close the book on the madman even with spending over two years pulling apart the strings of his network— _Too much going on._

Somewhere in the background he hears the click of the main door and registers that Molly has left without saying goodbye. He tries not to feel guilty about leaving her alone. He is _certainly_ not upset at her decision to go home....

Throwing up a wall against his suddenly very loud emotions, Sherlock takes a moment to redirect his mind toward clinical detachment. He flips on the light and examines himself in the mirror, taking in his dishevelled appearance before stripping out of his wrinkled clothes and leaving everything in a heap on the floor.

He wonders whether a scalding bath could burn away the past three days of his life.

* * *

 

John doesn’t even look up as Mary reaches across the table and pulls his bowl towards her, and doesn’t resist as she plucks the spoon from his hand. She’s hungry all the time and she’s pretty sure that watching Shredded Wheat grow soggy and inedible would have caused her physical pain. She starts munching on the broken-up hay bale as John simply drops his hand and continues watching his phone.

“You know, he might text you if you speak first,” she offers.

“What am I supposed to say?” he asks, sounding more uneasy than annoyed. “‘How’s your morning, want some help taking down that lunatic again?’”

“Tell him to eat something.”

John finally looks up, then down to the bowl that had been in front of him moments ago, and then back up. Mary smiles innocently, and is relieved to see him unguardedly return the expression. He picks up his phone and types a quick text before replacing it on the table between them. Leaning on his elbows he knots his fingers together, resting his chin on top of his hands, and Mary feels her heart swell at the softness of his gaze as he watches her.

Somehow, after everything, they had so easily fallen back into place as they were before. She wonders if the stress of the past few days is what solidified it, but as often as she looks, she doesn’t see any hint that John regrets his decision to let her back in. She knows she earned the three months of silence, but not the outright acceptance that she was shown on Christmas Day.

She returns to the present as the phone beeps. John picks it up and opens the text, letting out a chuckle as he hands the phone over for her to read.

_I am eating, but by now Mary has almost definitely taken your breakfast. Your move._

“Doesn’t seem like he needs anyone around just yet,” she says, returning the phone and finishing up John’s breakfast, moving the empty bowl off to the side.

“Do you think he will at all?” John says. “I mean, sure, support, but for the work?”

“They’ll probably give him someone official to work with.”

“You think?” John sends off another text, probably saying to text if they’re wanted.

“It’s what I would do if I wanted to keep him miserable,” she says with a shrug.

“Hmm.”

A short silence follows, a comfortable lack of sound between topics while the conversation hops off one track in search of another.

The next subject quickly presents itself as Mary feels a flutter in her belly.

“I’ve been thinking about names,” she begins, placing a hand over her bump.

John’s eyes light up as he says, “I’m sure you’ll be able to come up with better ones than me. I’d still like a say, though.”

A tiny laugh escapes her lips and she nods.

“Actually, I’ve got a few that I like.”

“Let’s hear them.”

* * *

 

She was in a decent mood when she left Sherlock’s, but during the cab ride home Molly managed to work herself into a rage. All the facts were set into place like pieces of a puzzle and the end result made her furious; not just at Sherlock, but at her own actions as well. She decided not for the first time that she hated the man for his ability to convince her to bend over backwards for him. She shouldn’t have stayed. She should have left him to wallow in his misery.

By the time she reaches her door she’s in enough of a state that when the key catches in the lock, she thinks she might be able to snap it in half if she turns it hard enough.

After losing her first key and having a replacement made, Molly discovered that the new key was not quite the same size as the original. The slightly differing lengths meant the new one occasionally stuck in the lock if she pushed it too hard, and she learned that coming home impatient often led to her being locked out for a few minutes while she tried to get the key and the lock to cooperate.

She stands at the door fighting with the key, which is now refusing to even come out of the lock. As she struggles futilely, her mind flicks momentarily back to Sherlock and she snaps, screaming at the door and slamming her hand against the hard wood.

Angry tears well up in her eyes as she leans against the door, counting the seconds between inhalations and exhalations to try to bring herself back down even though she’s seething.

 _Stupid man pretending he’s not human, not interested in people, kills someone to protect a friend but he can’t even talk to me without being a manipulative son of a bitch because he always fucking wants something..._ The key comes loose and Molly roughly turns it in the lock, throwing open the door and slamming it behind her.

Toby is at her feet within seconds of her taking off her shoes and hanging up her coat, already chastising her for not being home to feed him. She’s on automatic as she refills his bowls and walks to the bathroom, determined to have a nice hot shower and a half-decent meal before falling into bed.

Maybe when she wakes up she’ll hate Sherlock a little less.

 _No_ , she thinks, _there’s no maybe about it._

When she wakes up she’ll remember that Sherlock is cracked, and she’ll think about how she’s going to glue him back together. She’ll forget why she hated him in the first place. It won’t be the first time. She knows it won’t be the last time, either.

As she turns on the light and the fan and removes her layers, she wishes it were possible to turn the water hot enough that the steam could get a person out from under her skin.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft showed up just after six Sunday evening with four evidence crates and a carefully-worded lecture. He is to spend as much time and effort as possible in search of a solution, and resources will be provided as they are needed. He is not to take any other cases while he works. He is to work alone, lest facts get lost in someone else’s head. He is to relay the results of the week to an appointed runner, who has a list of his most frequently visited places and bolt-holes and thus will be able to find him under almost any circumstances. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah...

Keen to get to work, Sherlock agreed to the terms and sent his brother away without asking for information regarding the origins of the original message. If there were any details to share, he’d have had them.

He spent four and a half hours reading through the files in the first box, storing the information away where he could easily access it again, deleting a handful of novel plots and a few birthdays to make space.

It was just after eleven when he went to bed.

He was awake five hours later, drenched in sweat with his blankets kicked to the foot of the bed. There was no memory of what had caused the fit, but then two and a half years had been enough time to train himself to forget a dream. The denominator was obvious.

Barring a few necessary breaks, he spent fourteen hours on Monday committing the rest of the first box to memory. He left a small pile of noteworthy documents to pin up after finishing the other three boxes and cocooned himself in the duvet before ten.

Again he woke obscenely early, with an ache in his bones that reminded him of the tension of trying to conserve heat while sleeping in an empty park in St. Petersburg. He felt numb and inexplicably _lonely_ in his cold bed, and painfully wished he had someone to lull him back to sleep, if only until another night terror woke him. He lay in bed simply thinking until the sun came up.

He managed to get eight hours in on Tuesday, quitting early in the hopes of expelling Moriarty’s dead eyes from his mind and getting a full night’s rest.

Kicking himself awake for the third night in a row took the last of his patience and he simply threw himself back into the files at one in the morning with an exhausted determination. He could finish the second box. He could finish the third and the fourth and throw everything together and get an answer quickly so he could be finished with Moriarty forever. He didn’t care what would come after. He just wanted the peace of mind.

He read for less than an hour, letting his eyes close when they began to feel heavy. The last thing he saw was the number eight.

* * *

 

John trudges up the stairs to 221B, his boots dropping small chunks of snow on the old wooden steps. Mrs. Hudson will hardly mind; she’s dealt with much worse messes caused by the born-again hermit upstairs.

Sunday morning he responded to all of three texts. After that, not a word was heard from Sherlock Holmes. John had made a point of visiting Sherlock nearly every day since September; continuing in that habit would have been a better idea than leaving him alone, apparently.

He pauses on the landing, listening for any signs of life at both doors. With more caution than is probably necessary he opens the main door and sticks his head inside.

Four black plastic crates sit on the floor by the chairs, the one nearest him opened with manila folders inside. The mirror above the fireplace is surprisingly devoid of files, pictures, and news articles; on the other side of the room, the wall above the sofa is similarly blank. Finally, John sets his eyes on the desk, taking in the pile of papers and the man in pyjamas sleeping with his arms around his head.

John lets himself in with a sigh and walks over to stand in front of the desk. His eyes skim over the files before they return to the sleeping man-child, and he wonders for a brief moment if he should just let Sherlock stay where he is.

Almost completely certain he hasn’t bothered to feed himself, he puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and shakes him lightly. When Sherlock simply grumbles and pulls his arms tighter around his head, John repeats the action.

“No,” Sherlock mumbles, shrugging away but otherwise refusing to budge.

“Sherlock, wake up.”

“No. Need sleep.”

John glances at his watch, wondering how many hours of rest Sherlock can count for this week if he’s asleep at the desk at ten in the morning.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll wait until you’re awake, and then we’ll see if Mrs. Hudson is willing to make you something to eat.”

Sherlock hums in response and drops back off.

Curious about the contents of the boxes but determined not to pick up and misplace anything, John carefully begins searching for Sherlock’s phone. He finds it almost immediately on the far corner of the desk, plugged in, fully charged, and switched off. Normally while waiting he would do the customary filtering of Sherlock’s ignored calls, texts, and emails, but as John steps around the plastic bins and drops into his chair, he decides to just mark everything as read.

He really doesn’t want to see the cases Sherlock would have to reject.

* * *

 

It’s not the first time he’s gone a few days without food in favour of working, but as Sherlock valiantly tries to eat the meal in front of him at a reasonable pace, lest his plate be pulled away like a gluttonous child’s, he realises the last time he was this hungry was when he was playing dead. He doesn’t let that fact, or the knowledge that he has no idea what he’s even eating, bother him.

The experiences of dismantling Moriarty’s network are the nightmares of two years ago; the nightmares of now are of a greater concern.

_Peace of mind._

Before the delivery of the crates on Sunday and in the uncomfortable early hours of Tuesday morning, Sherlock allowed his mind to be occupied by one specific problem.

In relating his obvious feelings for Molly to previous experiences concerning the irrational, destructive, and distracting impulse he’d conceptualised as love, he managed to find himself at the conclusion that there were in fact many separate allotments of sentiment toward people in his life that were quite the opposite of harmful. Following this deduction, he allowed himself to redefine past occurrences in comparison, thus coming to a definitive end point in the thought process which boiled down to a few simple facts.

Firstly, by the amended definition, love represented a source of strength instead of a weakness.

Secondly, the Woman had not been anywhere close to love. On both ends, it had been fascination, an attraction to a dangerously clever mind.

Thirdly, love could be divided in three ways: familial, platonic, and romantic.

Lastly, these three divisions could intersect as well as change.

The mathematical approach he took to form this new concept had made it surprisingly easy to accept and understand. He had even managed to mentally construct a diagram upon which he was able to place the most important people in his life. Knowing precisely where everybody fell on that diagram could prove useful in any situation that might come up.

It didn’t solve the issue of the lack of intimate companionship he illogically wanted, but it was a start.

He has a fraction of a plan for the next step.

“So,” John says, pulling him back to the present. “Do you know what happens once you’ve solved the case of the undead maniac?”

Sherlock shrugs, taking a long drink from the mug on his side of the small table before speaking. “Apparently one of his people already volunteered and is gone to do the work I was going for. He’ll have a Plan C.”

“You weren’t coming back from that, though,” John argues. “I know Mary’s better at telling when you’re lying but you couldn’t have been much more obvious about ‘Who knows’ meaning you knew you’d be dead in half a year.”

“Would you have preferred to hear me say flat out that I’d be dead in half a year?”

“To be honest I would have preferred if you’d just stayed away from Magnussen altogether.”

“You know I couldn’t do that, John.”

“Why not?” John snaps. He leans forward, glaring, and in a sharp tone continues, “Seriously, explain to me how faking an entire relationship, going back to drugs, getting yourself shot, and shooting Magnussen in the head in front of witnesses was a better turnout than if you’d have just left it all alone?”

Sherlock mirrors John’s stance, leaning forward and responding calmly, “If I’d have simply sat on my hands, your wife would have been the one to shoot him in the head. Would you be happier if the police discovered a lack of alibi?”

He stops himself there, knowing the magnitude of the mistake it would be to continue. _My brother would have made a point of placing himself in that situation, in which case he would have been the one to tell you about her past, and I highly doubt you’d have wanted it to come from him. And what would have happened after, do you think? Your wife’s imprisoned for the rest of her life, or worse, one of Magnussen’s contacts finds out about her and you lose two in one day...._

He’s sure that if those words had passed his lips he wouldn’t have had time to register John’s hand snapping out to grab his hair before feeling his nose and forehead connect with the table. The surprise would be numbing, to the point where he’d spend a few moments staring dumbly down at a dark red circle on the linoleum, and he would know he earned it.

So he leaves his response hanging, watching warily as John calms and returns to sitting back in his chair with his arms crossed, apparently accepting the logic in the statement. His eyes are facing somewhere off to the side and he sniffs; the most obvious tell that he’s ready to change the subject.

Sherlock mulls over the possible discussion topics, unable to determine which would be the least redundant to bring up. Surely nothing of note was worth mentioning—

“So are we still doing New Year tonight?”

_Ah._

_May need more than a fraction of that plan._

* * *

 

Her first time at Baker Street for a social gathering involved being publicly wounded by the words of an idiot who didn’t realise the person he was jealous of didn’t exist. The second time, it was to celebrate an engagement, not knowing that hers would be over in less than a year.

 _Third time’s the charm_ , Molly thinks to herself, stepping up to the black door with apprehension.

She considered cancelling, calling or texting to say she wasn’t feeling up for it and that she wanted to just stay home and relax and watch the fireworks on TV. She knew she’d feel terrible backing out, though, after seeing Sherlock’s obvious relief after she’d said yes. Things had been fragile between them when he’d asked her to come, and she’s pretty sure part of her reasoning for sticking to it is still because she wants to be certain they’re on good terms. It would always be impossible to say no to him, but she knows it’s not because of some crush based on hero worship anymore. She knows him too well now, knows he’s just as human as everybody else, even though he pretends not to be.

She’s stewed, simmered, and grasped the entire reality of _them_ and what she wants to do about the fact that there is definitely something in their relationship that is not platonic.

She needs to know where he stands now.

Molly lets herself in, hanging her coat and scarf in the little alcove near the door. The infamous deerstalker hangs on its own hook like a marker telling strangers they’ve come to the right place _._ Straightening out the sleeves and skirt of her dress, she makes her way upstairs.

The decision to dress up hadn’t been an easy one. She didn’t really want anything like that disastrous Christmas party, but she wanted to at least look _nice_. The dress had been part of a spontaneous birthday gift to herself in October; the charcoal grey, knee-length knit turtleneck was incredibly comfortable and casually pretty, and she even found stockings to go with it nicely. Why not ring in the New Year looking and feeling good?

Quiet music floats down the stairwell from the flat, and as Molly reaches the landing she recognises it as something from her own collection. It could be a coincidence, but she wouldn’t put it against Sherlock to have copied all of her music at some point for no significant reason. He’s used her laptop often enough.

The door is already open and she enters with a light knock.

Sherlock sits sideways in his chair – more half-lying – with his legs hanging over the arm, crossed at the knees. His attention is on what looks like a Rubik’s cube with numbers on as he smoothly turns the sides of the block in his hands.

Her eyes flicker around the room quickly, taking in the evidence that Sherlock has been working on the Jim thing – _the Moriarty thing_ , she reminds herself.

“Molly,” Sherlock greets, not taking his eyes off the puzzle in his hands.

“Hi,” she says, self-consciously smoothing her dress out again. “Am I early?”

“John and Mary are ordering dinner.” He gestures vaguely toward the kitchen before adding, “And you don’t have to keep fixing yourself. You look lovely.”

Molly feels her cheeks go pink and finds herself smiling shyly. “You haven’t even looked up.”

His lips curve into a crooked grin. “It’s inadvisable to look directly at the sun.”

“All right now, stop that,” Mary chides as she makes her way out of the kitchen with John directly behind her. “You can at least put off the flirting until we go to pick up the food.”

“Actually,” John offers, exiting the kitchen behind her, “if we leave now, they’ll just be packing it when we get there.”

“Well in that case, let’s go.” Mary takes John’s hand and pulls him toward the door. “Hi, Molly!”

Slightly confused, Molly gives a little wave to the pair as they disappear down the stairs. Turning slowly back to Sherlock she says, “What was that?”

“Do you know the algorithm?”

“Try again,” she says immediately, moving to take a seat in the chair opposite him.

Sherlock sighs and now turns his head to look up at her. “You look incredible, Molly Hooper.”

He looks like a cocky teenager with his lazy grin and lanky body, and Molly wonders fleetingly where that coolness came from. She could always see right through it, but right now he looks so comfortable.

“Thank you.” Her little voice warns that he’ll be a step ahead as she straightens her shoulders and boldly says, “Though if you keep that up I’ll expect you to buy me dinner.”

“I’m already buying dinner.”

“You’re buying dinner for four. I meant just us.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at her but she stands her ground, raising an eyebrow, willing him to respond. She’s not entirely sure what she’s doing, but she’s going with it.

“Friday at six?” he asks.

Intent to appear less startled than she is, Molly says, “Perfect.”

“I know a place in Soho you might like.”

“Sounds good.”

“Good.”

Sherlock returns to solving his puzzle while Molly slowly catches up with herself, feeling more and more perplexed as she realises that after five years of emotional inconsistency, they just organised a dinner date in about twenty seconds. Even though she feels an eerie burst of confidence, her heart is beating loudly.

As she sits back in the big chair to listen to the relaxing music, she finds herself hoping against all hope that nothing will go sideways tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, that wasn't how this chapter originally ended, but the entire thing went through three rewrites and the one I almost used was too OOC for my liking. That said, I've always believed that Sherlock's inhibitory processes are thrown slightly differently when he's sleep-deprived compared to when he's drunk.
> 
> Also, I want to say thank you. I really appreciate everybody who's read this so far. Every bit of feedback makes me feel great. Thank you. Really.


	5. Chapter 5

The fan is loud enough that she doesn’t hear it at first, but when she flips the switch and opens the bathroom door, Molly hears the phone and dashes for it before it stops ringing, holding her towel up for the sake of not dripping all over the wood laminate. Very nearly tripping over Toby lounging in the middle of the floor, she reaches the table and snatches up her mobile without looking at the number on the screen.

“Hello!” she says cheerily, pulling her hair around her shoulder in one heavy mass to avoid leaving a pool behind her.

“Quick question,” Mary Watson’s voice comes from the other end of the line. Molly hears her shushing someone, presumably John, before saying, “Won’t take a minute.”

“Okay....”

“What are you doing tonight?”

“I’m going out, actually.”

She flinches at how it sounds like a question. Even though she had two days to mull it over, the fact that she has an actual date with Sherlock Holmes still feels like a foreign concept.

“Okay, that’s all we needed. Bye!”

“What—”

Her phone beeps as the line disconnects from the other end and she stares down at it for a moment before placing it back on the table. She shrugs as she passes by Toby on her way back to the bathroom, not very surprised that John and Mary have already found out and taken interest. After, well, _everything_ , she doesn’t blame them for wanting to know what’s happening in both Sherlock’s world and hers.

Molly lets her mind wander as she goes through the rest of her routine, wondering what Sherlock has planned for the evening. She’s nervous beyond belief at the possibility that he might get bored around the unexciting common folk, and as she winds her hair up in a dry towel, she begins to feel heavy and anxious.

 _It’ll be fine_ , she tells herself. _And if it doesn’t go well, then too bad. You’re the one who brought it up, anyway._

Feeling her self-consciousness growing in her stomach, she cleans her teeth and slips into her dressing gown, padding to her room to get dressed.  She almost regrets not saving the turtleneck, because it would have been perfect, but it’s hardly the only nice thing she has in her wardrobe. She may still have all the loose, comfortable, impossible-to-match clothes as before, but her post-engagement phase of not only treating herself first but making a point of it ended with her having quite a lot of new, pretty clothes that she’s grateful to have a chance to wear.

Congratulating herself on her boldness two nights ago and thanking Sherlock for going along with it, Molly goes for her new favourite.

* * *

 

Every vocal personification inside his mind, including his own, is trying to convince him to run away. They all say in their own ways how bad the idea is, how ridiculous his expectations are, and how disappointed everyone will be with him, as if he’s fallen victim to some kind of dangerous siren song. He’s just...

Actually, he’s not sure what he’s doing. And it’s exciting. It’s exciting to be this surprisingly nervous. Pretending was easy. This time around he really is invested. It’s brilliantly terrifying.

Sherlock scrutinises his watch as he stands in front of Molly’s door. He could just let himself in like usual – he has a key after all, and he let himself in the building already – but even he understands some social convention.

None of Molly’s clocks are set to the proper time, apart from the one on her phone. It’s her own psychological trick to make sure she’s never late; not knowing which clock is closest to the right time, she always makes a point of leaving home earlier than necessary. In his favour, it relieves some of the stress of trying to decide whether to be a minute early, a minute late, or right on time.

He waits until he’s certain her kitchen clock says six, and he knocks. While he waits, he looks down, examining the cheap carpeting beneath his feet. It’s easy to determine the in-and-out activity by the floor on the threshold of a door but he gains nothing interesting, since the corridor was recently cleaned. This morning, it would seem, since the only sign of life here is—

The door opens and he looks up, feeling his mouth instantly go dry.

Molly looks the exact opposite of what he feels, her large smile exposing the dimples of her cheeks and the roundness of her face, framed by the thick waves of her impressively long hair.

And her _dress_. Navy blue with black rose print, fitted around the waist to accentuate her slight frame, pleated skirt and black leggings to go with it... It’s like a kick to the solar plexus.

_Oh, nice, getting sciencey already! Next there’s going to be a chemistry joke._

_Shut up, John._

“Um, Sherlock? Are you okay?”

He lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding as he switches back on, his brain rebooting after whatever the hell just happened. Blinking hard, he looks back at her now-worried face.

“Fine,” he croaks. More than a little embarrassed, he clears his throat and tries again. _No pressure_. “You look... good.”

He can only guess that she sees past the glaring understatement by the fact that her smile has returned.

“Thank you,” she says. “Shall we go?”

“Yes. Sorry. Um...”

He moves back as she pulls on her overlarge coat and steps into her shoes before closing and locking her door. Upon review, his brain seems to be back up to the proper processing speed.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going tonight?” she asks as they make their way toward the lift. “I mean, you’re always in a suit so it’s hard to tell how dressed-up I should be.”

“Dean Street Townhouse. You’re perfectly outfitted, Molly.”

It takes a second for him to realise she’s stopped walking. He pauses and turns around, feeling as alarmed as Molly looks with her wide eyes.

“Not good?” he asks. She looks like she’s about to change her mind on everything and retreat into her flat, and the thought actually hurts.

“No, it’s just...” She wrings her hands and gesticulates weakly, a clear tell that she’s trying to form a specific statement. Cringing slightly, she continues, “I don’t think I can say yes to that, Sherlock. I don’t feel comfortable with going somewhere that... _posh_ for a first date.”

“Oh.” They haven’t even left her building and the plan is already changed. He considers the sheer number of possibilities from here, still hoping that Molly won’t just back out, and that it won’t be too difficult to get a table somewhere else on a Friday night. If it happens to be something small, it would be a significant point in their favour.... “Is there somewhere else you’d prefer?”

Molly chews on her bottom lip around a small smile, looks down at herself, and laughs quietly. He raises an eyebrow, now very curious.

“Don’t tell me you want fish and chips.”

“Honestly, that sounds perfect.”

Sherlock finds himself laughing, and Molly responds in kind. He holds a hand out to her and she takes it. The difference in the size of their hands is so much that hers fits almost completely inside his own; it feels strange to be holding such a small bit of warmth.

_So far, so good._

* * *

 

It’s a short walk to the nearest fish shop, and to her surprise, Molly wishes for once for it to be farther away. Sherlock doesn’t let go of her hand and talks about nothing and everything, occasionally sharing the details of the life of some passers-by he finds interesting. She felt incredibly mean saying no to Dean Street, but it was impossible to explain frugality to a man in a tailored suit that probably cost as much as two months’ rent. It was a huge relief to have avoided the awkward hurdle she managed to put up in that moment; now, he looks at ease. She’s perfectly content to listen as he goes on, trying to find the connections in his train of thought as he moves on to listing the pros and cons of various street food vendors in the city as they come up to the little restaurant.

The bell tinkles lightly as he opens the door for her, alerting a single person to their arrival.

“Well, I doubt we’ll be able to find a table in here,” Molly jokes, looking at all the empty chairs as she shrugs off her coat. She hears a low chuckle behind her and turns to Sherlock with a sly grin.

Her nerves from earlier have diminished and she realises how hungry she is. Thankfully, it’s only a few minutes after ordering and paying that she and Sherlock take a seat with their respective meals and mugs of coffee.

It doesn’t feel like a first date at all, Molly thinks. They’ve known each other for over five years so there’s no getting-to-know-you conversation, no telling each other about what they do and things they enjoy, no awkward silence to follow her explaining what a forensic pathologist does. She tells him about even the most unremarkable autopsies she’s performed recently and he listens with undisguised interest as she goes through details that would make nearly any other man eagerly attempt to change the subject. Treading carefully, she asks how his work is coming along, and he shares basic details, telling her the process of going about the case and how it’s shaped by his brother’s rules.

“What’s a runner?” she asks when it sounds like he’s finished talking.

“Someone who delivers files and information.” He drowns a chip in ketchup as he continues, “They’ve got a whole system but the few I know are either inbound or outbound carriers.”

“Meaning they bring information in to your brother or send information out from him?”

“Exactly.”

“It doesn’t sound very exciting.”

“I don’t imagine it is.”

The complete effortlessness of it all makes it feel like such a natural occurrence, as if going out for fish and chips a little overdressed is something they’ve done so many times before. Or, maybe, something they’ll keep doing.

After what feels like no time at all, they’re already on their way out the door.

“I commend your choice for dinner,” Sherlock says as he adjusts his coat over his scarf. “I’ve significantly lowered my expectations for myself.”

“You hardly needed to impress me,” she reminds him, letting him off the hook for more or less admitting to his nerves. He hums in response, taking her hand once again as they make their way back to her flat.

The short walk is amicably quiet. She can see him thinking and wonders what’s going on inside his mind. Every now and then they exchange a glance and he smiles at her softly, and Molly can only assume his thoughts are positive.

When they reach her building Sherlock doesn’t let go of her hand, instead turning to face her with a thoughtful expression.

“Thank you, Molly.”

“Thank _you_. I really enjoyed this.”

A smile flickers on his face before he settles into seriousness again. “I don’t just mean this. And I don’t just mean when you stayed with me that night. I wanted to thank you then but I couldn’t.”

“It’s okay,” she says quietly. “I understand.”

“I’m not sure you do.” His eyes are wide and almost fearful as he throws out his next words in one large bundle. “Molly, I know I’ll never be able to properly apologise for every time I’ve used and mistreated you. I won’t pretend I’m a nice person, but I promise there is nothing I wouldn’t do to make up for being horrible to you and for leaving you to keep my secrets alone. You didn’t deserve any of it, and I don’t deserve your faith. I meant it when I said you’re the one who matters the most to me and all I can do is hope that I matter to you in a similar capacity.

“I don’t know how it happened, or when, or why, but I’ve realised that not only am I emotionally attached to you, your uncompromising kindness, and your talented mind, but I also feel a real desire to be close to you. I think that’s the reason I haven’t been able to read you properly in so long. Contrary to popular belief I find you incredibly attractive, and not simply when it comes to appearance, but in that respect you’re rather beautiful when you let yourself be the original Molly Hooper. Like tonight. I’m actually glad for not having to impress you because I’m sure I would have failed.

“Basically what I’m saying is I’m an idiot for not understanding my own mind and speaking sooner. I know it’s unfair that I’m only saying it now, when there’s a real chance it will all go nowhere, but too many things have stopped me saying it in the past and it needs to be out in the open.

“I’ll understand if you don’t feel the same way though.” Taking a deep breath, he scrunches his nose and says seemingly to himself, “That was a lot more than I meant to say.”

His words hang in a silence so tight that Molly is almost certain she can hear his heart beating over the background noise of the city outside. She didn’t prepare herself for any of that, but apparently neither did he; she’s certain that Sherlock was just as terrified of this as he was of telling her about his last case, and she feels a clench in her chest and a lump in her throat. It takes her a moment to realise her eyes are wet and she quickly wipes them away with a sniffle.  She laughs quietly at herself and looks up at Sherlock; his eyes are wide and pleading, begging her to just say or do _something_.

How long has she wanted to hear something like that from Sherlock? And now here she is just standing in front of him silently because of those damned emotions he was so keen to avoid.

Suddenly, he makes perfect sense. Everything makes perfect sense. Where they are, why she’s so comfortable with him again, all of it.

She adores him.

And apparently, the feeling is mutual.

Molly isn’t sure where to go from there; she wants to give Sherlock what he’s just given her, some kind of assurance that they’re on the same page, but she’s never been amazing with words, and he looks like he doesn’t know what to do either.

 _Like a pair of stupid teenagers_ , she thinks to herself, and allowing impulse to take over, she grabs the lapels of his coat, pulling him down to where she can reach him.

Sherlock inhales sharply as their lips connect and immediately brings his hands up to cradle her cheeks. She didn’t know what he meant by wanting to be close, but as he leans forward, closing the gap between their bodies, she’s fairly certain she gets the idea. His kiss is firm but his mouth is startlingly soft and warm, and when he pulls away, he looks understandably surprised.

“We should do this again,” Molly says after a moment, still clinging to his coat. “All of it.”

“Mm. Let me know when you’re available.”

“Of course.” She stands on her toes and pulls lightly on his coat, and he leans down for another, softer kiss. “I’ll see you soon.”

“I’m counting on it,” he murmurs as he releases her. “Good night, Molly Hooper.”

Molly unlocks the door and opens it fractionally before turning to him, beaming. It’s impossible not to see the plain and simple happiness behind his crinkle-eyed smile, and she’s determined to see it again. And again. And again.

“Good night, Sherlock Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that happened. I actually had this one mapped out a while ago, and I've been procrastinating, so it seemed like a good idea to get it out.
> 
> Again, thank you for reading, and for the comments and kudos. I love it. All of it. Thank you.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock stands on the coffee table, scrutinising the wall above the sofa. He approaches the evidence pinned to the wall from various angles, attempting to form a single coherent strand to pull him in a direction other than backward, but every road, every side street, every path he considers leads him back to his current position. Everything fits. The deals, the hits, the direction and presentation of the crimes listed before him, all of it coincides with what he learned about Moriarty’s web in the twenty-nine months he spent unraveling it.

With a sigh, he turns and steps off the table, walking to the opposite wall, where he has more files taped up on the mirror: minor details, insignificant pieces of information that could prove important in determining how the man who put a gun in his mouth was able to get a message out three and a half years later. He faked his own death with careful calculations and reliance on visual perspective, but Moriarty... he’d seen the blood pooling, he’d _smelt_ it, for God’s sake. They were alone on the roof. There could be no illusions.

Logical conclusion: Moriarty had it planned, and made the message beforehand, sending it off to an anonymous third party to upload on a given date to cause panic.

It was so like him.

Not having the video’s source is proving problematic, however, so he can’t back the theory up, no matter how obvious it seems. Finding that third party would be the end of it, as they would have nothing to fear by simply confessing. Mycroft would see to it that they were acceptably punished for their actions – probably just a fine and a threat that if they spoke about the affair they would regret it – and the case would be closed.

And he’d be left to find out what his own sentence would be, since his seat on the plane was filled almost as quickly as it was vacated. He doesn’t let himself wonder who it was who volunteered for the undercover mission, but he does allow himself to hope that whoever it is will come back from it.

His attention is drawn to the CV of Richard Brook, which sits next to the police file on Jim Moriarty. It presents the only real possibility of a plot hole in the entire narrative.

_Brook’s height: 5ft 10 in. Converts to 178cm. Moriarty’s height: 173cm._

Why? Why give your character an extra two inches if you run the very real risk of being measured and exposing the simple inconsistency? There’s no point in an actor lying about his height if he has to be fitted for wardrobe anyway.

Illogical conclusion: Richard Brook is real and still out there, and was paid to create the message and upload it on a given date to cause panic.

A nagging voice in the back of his head tells Sherlock that the flaw was put there on purpose. The end goal that morning was for the world to see the suicide of Sherlock Holmes; leaving the thread to simply pull and unravel the entire lie would be a delightful end to their final problem. Moriarty wins. Holmes is gone, and all for naught. It leaves the people he cared about even more broken than before at the needless waste of life, and if his ghost were around to see it, well, he’d have his heart burned out all over again. The perfect ending to an intentionally imperfect story.

It makes him sick.

He sees the disgust on his face as he spots his reflection in a space on the mirror, and turning away with a scowl, he stomps back to the table, this time stopping in front of it and crossing his arms. Glaring at the documents plastered over the yellow, bullet-riddled smiley face does nothing for him. He doesn’t even see the words. He can’t rid himself of the infuriating thought of Moriarty standing there with his hands in his pockets like a smug fuck watching Sherlock as he is now, sleepless, stressed, stretched too thin and cracking like rubber left out in the cold.

With an irritated huff he pads to his chair and throws himself down, only to stand a few seconds later to pick up his violin.

No matter his level of agitation, he always treats the instrument with care. Apart from his time away, it was always a constant, easily accessible whenever he needed to think or to just relax. Even now, he feels his patience start to come back as soon as he begins readying the bow.

It went with him to uni, where he occasionally skived off lectures in favour of busking on a sunny corner in town, not just for a few extra quid to buy cigarettes, but also to get away from the dullness of his droning professors and boring peers. He couldn’t do that now even if he wanted to. Not only does he have a reputation as an intellectual rather than a creative being, but somewhere along the line, he found that he prefers playing for himself and for people he actually likes, and that playing for strangers would do nothing for him.

He tries not to think as he drags the bow lightly over the strings, his fingers forming the notes to correspond to the movements. The weight of the wood, the feel of the vibrations in his hands, the preternatural fluidity of the music being delivered from inside his brain, down to his hands, out into the air and back in again, all set him into his own little bubble where he can simply close his eyes and breathe. The melody he’s creating is new and unfamiliar and soft, but he doesn’t allow himself to pause to jot down the notes, instead committing them to memory in chunks.

He’ll write it down in its entirety and give it a name later.

* * *

 

The sun is just dropping behind the cityscape with a last-minute show of pink and orange when Molly unlocks the door to Baker Street. She wonders if Sherlock even knows what day it is. She hasn’t called or texted him recently, guessing that he’d prefer to work without interruption, but she won’t let that happen tonight. It’s his birthday, and she’s not going to let him spend it alone.

Opening the second door into the foyer, she hears the sound of a violin from upstairs. Smiling to herself, she climbs the steps quietly, toeing the bannister to avoid the one that squeaks. At the landing she lets herself in through the kitchen, depositing her bag beside the fridge before opening the sliding doors into the sitting room.

She’s only ever seen Sherlock play once, at John and Mary’s wedding, and he looked so calm then. Now, he’s moving leisurely around the room as he plays, his footfalls not matching the music, but even then, the gentle waves of sound make it look like he’s waltzing with the violin as his partner.

The way he plays with his eyes closed and an expression of absolute peace makes Molly feel like she’s looking in on something incredibly private. Her cheeks warm as she watches him, seeing his passion for the music in the way his face flickers with some emotion as the melody swells beneath his fingertips. She wonders what it’s like on the inside, if he sees the sensuality of it as she can.

His back is to her when he plays the final note and he stands still for a moment before placing the violin and bow on his chair.

“You’ve been here a while.”

She jumps at the sound of his voice but isn’t surprised that he knew she’d come in. Even in his own little world, he wouldn’t have missed it. “Only a few minutes,” she manages, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt you—”

“It’s all right, Molly.” He turns to her with a small, warm smile and holds out a hand. She’s still for a second before walking forward, placing her hand in his as he leans down to press a light kiss to her lips. “Although I am curious as to why you’re here.”

“It’s your birthday,” she tells him patiently. “I thought you’d like some company.”

“Hmm.”

He looks down at their entwined hands for a long moment before an idea visibly pops into his head. She lets him navigate her to stand facing the window, where she can see her image against the early darkness outside, but not the papers and pictures of Jim Moriarty on the walls to either side of her.

“What are we doing?” she asks excitedly when he retrieves his violin from the chair.

“Quick lesson,” he replies, placing the fingers of her right hand around the bow. “I wonder how you’d enjoy it.” He does the same for her left hand, placing the instrument comfortably, and then moving to stand behind her.

She feels ridiculously nervous suddenly, afraid to drop the beautiful violin he’s just given to her, afraid to make the thing screech, and he is _right_ behind her, she can feel the heat against her back as he places his hands over hers on the bow and on the neck of the violin.

“Relax,” he advises, and she lets out a puff of air, feeling her tension ease only slightly. “This is meant to be educational.”

“Hard to concentrate when you’re that close,” she mumbles, and she swears she can feel the rumble as he chuckles.

“You’re more a visual and kinetic learner than auditory, which works in our favour. I’m going to lead this hand,” he says, tapping his right index finger on her hand holding the bow, “and play the notes with the other. I want you to watch the strings, and try to remember what your arm feels like as the bow moves. Understand?”

Molly nods confidently, standing up straighter and glancing at their reflection in the window before turning her attention to Sherlock’s left hand on the strings of the violin.

He moves the bow across the strings gently, slowly enough that she can catch both the pattern of the notes and that of the bow. It doesn’t take her a second to recognise the simple “Twinkle, Twinkle” melody, and she finds herself smiling at how cute it is compared to how serious Sherlock makes himself out to be. They play through the song three times before he takes his right hand away from the bow and adjusts Molly’s left hand over the strings.

“Your turn,” he prompts.

The instrument squeaks only once as she repeats the motions in her first attempt, and she immediately goes at it again, feeling just confident enough that she can get it right the second time.

When she finishes without a mistake she bounces happily on the spot, spinning around to grin up at Sherlock.

“I did it!”

His lips curl up in response as he says, “I’m proud.”

“Really?”

“Of course. Want to try another one?”

She shakes her head, looking away shyly after the flattering remark as she puts the violin back on his chair. “I think I’d rather listen to you play. I’ll stick with the bone saw.”

“Fair enough.”

Sherlock reaches for the pencil and a handful of sheets resting on the music stand by the window, planting himself at the desk. Molly takes the opposite seat, watching as he writes a few notes at a time, occasionally pausing to tap on the table or move his hand through the air as if on a scale. She stops counting how many sheets he’s completed after four, but as the minutes pass and he continues scratching down one block at a time, she begins to see the design in the method. He could probably give her a very informative lesson on optimisation of chunking along with a dozen other useful mental hacks.... For now she’s fine just watching him compose his music, even though she can’t read it.

He’s not happy, though. She’s seen him sulking, snappish, and stressed, but right now he looks a different kind of tired. She waits until he finishes, piling up his papers and setting them aside, before asking flat out if he’s okay.

“I’m fine,” he replies. The calmness of his tone doesn’t overshadow the fact that he looked down as he spoke. _Obvious_ , as he would say.

“Look me in the eye and say that,” Molly says severely, and when his eyes snap toward her, she makes a point of looking just below to see the slightly grey-toned circles that give away his exhaustion. She’s pulled honesty from Sherlock with patience but she’s never actually challenged him to lie to her.

They sit in silence and Molly refuses to look away as Sherlock stares at her. He looks baffled, like he should have a little spinning circle beside him. His mouth opens and closes a few times before his shoulders sag and he leans forward on his elbows, resting with his hands in his hair. When he tilts his head to look up at her, he looks so beat that she almost regrets being stern.

“The only night I haven’t woken from a nightmare was the night you stayed,” he says matter-of-factly, “and this Saturday morning I was startled awake. Given the evidence I’d say that your presence is effective, but I didn’t want to impose.”

“The one time you didn’t want to impose would have been the best time,” she says calmly. “You can stay with me every night of the week if you need to.”

He scrunches his nose as he considers it, keeping his eyes on her to judge her certainty. “Is that offer in any way related to the recent developments in our relationship?”

 _Good question_ , she thinks, pursing her lips. She knows what he’s asking, so she starts slowly, “I think, with knowing each other this long and working together as much as we have, it shouldn’t constitute moving too fast. I know we’ve only been on one real date, but if you count the day we solved crimes, the times we’ve done experiments together, raising your bacterial cultures, the post-mortems you’ve observed, and the times you’ve come to my flat to get away...”

“That makes us sound rather official. I think I’d prefer we had dinner first.”

With that, he stands, going directly for his coat on the back of the door. He’s tying his scarf when he looks back to her.  She’s still sitting at the desk and she can feel herself smiling, although she can’t pin down one reason why. He’s so mercurial that sometimes she can’t help but be amused, and the way he’s looking at her, cautious, hopeful, is just plain lovely. For now, they can both put the nightmares aside and enjoy each other’s company.

He opens the door for her, and she pauses to pull him down for a peck before leading the way downstairs.


	7. Chapter 7

_The pounding of his heart is deafening, drowning out all opportunity for any other sound to reach him. The room, so far from every other space, locked away as far down as he could possibly put it, is impossibly dark, with no hint of light from the walls or under the door. It smells like basement, dingy, filthy, wet._

_He’s trapped, tied, wrapped in a garment he knows is a dirty, faded white, hugging himself with no way to move. His legs refuse to twitch because they too are bound, not by fabric but by gravity, unable to be lifted from the hard surface upon which he lies. He feels the cold weight of metal around his neck and the warm stickiness of some pool beneath his head, in his hair, on his face._

_His breath is too calm for how hard the blood is trying to pump through his body, a white hot buzzing inside his head threatening to pull him under. It’s what he wants, now. Eternities have passed with him just lying here, awake, frozen, waiting._

_Dim lights flicker on as the door is opened, casting the round room in a sickly yellow glow. He feels the footfalls on the ground before the body enters his line of vision above his view of the dark red on the floor._

_A tilted head appears above him, upside down, looking upon his form calmly, almost amused. The face is familiar and terrifying, and he feels his heart stop, blood freezing, as he stares up at his controller._

_In the silence that follows, he watches the mouth move above wide, dark, dead eyes and hears the words come out, smooth and lilted._

_“Oh, Sherlock. Look at you. I thought you’d be happy to have company.”_

_He follows the eyes as they release him, his head turning far too slowly to see another cocooned form lying close by, chained to the padded wall as he is. He sees no face, but long, dark, knotted hair fans out over the body and onto the floor, and in his core he knows who it belongs to._

_“I suppose I should leave you two to chat,” the controller says, and he hears the fading footsteps and the soft closing door, leaving him isolated with the other being, staring until the weak light dissipates from the walls above._

_Then, as every other time, he feels the pain rip through him from head to toe, as if every one of his bones is breaking at once._

* * *

 

His eyes snap open in response to hearing his name, the sound ringing in his ear as if it was screamed at him from close by. He’s curled up tightly, hands clenching the edge of the pillow as if for dear life, and when he feels a hand touch his arm, he bolts upright with a strangled gasp.

Molly is sitting up beside him, looking white as a sheet in the soft light seeping through the curtains, her eyes wide and... wet. She’s crying. Why is she crying?

He feels the ache in his bones as he tries to relax himself, pushing his shaking body back to rest against the pillow and headboard, willing his ragged breath to settle as the memory of whatever woke him fades away. Her hand is there again, moving up and down his arm, aiding to calm his loudly beating heart. He lets his head fall back, closing his eyes.

She whispers his name, and before he can turn his head and raise his lids, he feels her crawl over him, sitting on his lap. He looks at her then, straddling his legs, her hips against his and her face only inches away, and he feels a rush of gratitude for her closeness. He pulls his knees up and wraps his arms around her waist, making as much contact as possible. She in turn places her arms around his shoulders, running the fingers of one hand through his hair in that soothing motion from before.

Neither speaks as he buries his face in the curve between her shoulder and neck, and soon after his heart rate returns to normal, he feels the heaviness of exhaustion return to his body.

He’s too tired to think about how she could have such impeccable timing, but when she pulls away from him and returns to her half of the bed, he has just enough time to lie back down and turn to face her before his brain powers down and he drops back off into a deep sleep.

* * *

 

Sometimes she thinks he’s getting better. It’s impossible to know how he’s doing during the day when she’s at work six days a week, but she gets him to tell her when they sit in their pyjamas at night.

John and Mary take him people-watching a couple evenings a week to work his mind a bit. She knows he enjoys their company more than the company of most other people, and his animation when he relates the progress of Mary’s pregnancy is utterly endearing. He went on for the better part of an hour one night near the end of January about having felt the baby’s little foot flutter against his hand, and from then Molly was absolutely certain that Uncle Sherlock would be wrapped around that girl’s finger the moment she made her appearance.

“They’re calling her Rosamund,” he told her, and even though he didn’t look up from the cat on his lap, she could already see his total adoration for the little girl.

They mostly lounge about in their alone time but they go out at least once a week too, whether it’s to dinner or just for a walk around the city. He seems to find comfort in the lights and the noise and she wonders where it comes from. Most people seem to be indifferent to the business on the streets, but Sherlock takes it all in as if London is a living, loving being. He takes her to his favourite places, a quiet corner on a busy road or an inviting restaurant in the middle of town where the staff know him by name.

She’s seen herself in the paper twice. The first time felt more than a little strange, and Sherlock reacted by hovering, asking if she was all right about it, and assuring her that nothing would happen to disrupt her career. The second time they’d called her the Bart’s Beauty, which Sherlock found distasteful but which Molly found amusingly flattering. It took a while for him to accept the fact that the media would comment on her appearance before her intelligence, and even then he grumbled, asking repeatedly if his ratio of complimenting her looks to complimenting her mind was acceptable.

He’s sweet in his own way, unconventional but still strangely formal. He meticulously avoids public displays of affection, opting for simple hand-holding and cheek-kissing when they’re out. She’s never asked if it’s because he actually hates advertising for nobody’s benefit or if it’s a refusal to entertain the cameras that occasionally follow them around, but either way she doesn’t mind. Behind closed doors he’s incredibly affectionate, touching her whenever the opportunity presents itself, using her lap as a pillow when they’re on the sofa, kissing her as often as possible. And does he ever kiss her. And he’s a biter. Yum.

After spending the first half of February complaining about the corporate holiday that couples were hypnotised into celebrating, Sherlock had surprised her with an anatomically correct chocolate heart. Molly had laughed for a good two minutes before presenting him with her gift of a chocolate brain. They spent that evening just sitting around at Baker Street eating leftovers, picking away at their respective chocolate organs, and later falling asleep on the sofa in a comfortable heap.

That was the first time he explicitly said he loved her. It wasn’t something Molly expected to hear often, guessing that he’d view it as a fact that didn’t need repeating. She doesn’t mind that either; the way he looks at her when he thinks she can’t see is enough for her to know it’s true.

She met his runner the next morning, a pleasant woman called Rhiannon Fletcher, who, apart from similarly needing some sun, looks eerily like Sherlock’s photo negative. Her round face, long platinum curls, and solid amber eyes provide an unusual contrast when she stands next to Sherlock, and her fast, flat “Tronno” accent, paired with her form-fitting clothes and overlarge leather jacket makes the entirety of her presence seem as if she was assigned as some sort of joke. Sherlock seemed to like her well enough, and when he asked patiently if she had the source of the original message from Moriarty, she apologised as if she’d had to say no on many occasions.

She thought he was getting better, but after seven weekly attempts to get his hands on the source of the case, Sherlock’s irritation was becoming more and more incapacitating. Molly became certain that he would crack unexpectedly when she noticed his days becoming as bad as his nights.

He still wakes up in the early hours of the morning, sweating or shivering or both, curled up or clinging to whatever fabric is within reach. Sometimes it’s quiet and he wakes with a start, other times he’s whimpering and gasping half-formed sentences when she shakes him awake. She does the same thing every time he sits up to breathe, the only thing she can think to do: she climbs into his lap and holds him tightly, until she feels him falling asleep again.

At first, the whole point of having Sherlock sleep with her was sensitisation, to have her closeness be a grounder. What happened instead was habituation, and while the first couple weeks showed promise, the nightmares returned just as bad as before, and then they became worse. It doesn’t surprise her that it happened that way, but it doesn’t stop her feeling painfully helpless.

She thought she could fix him, and realising she can do no more than lull him back to sleep makes her feel terrible, like she’s letting him down. He can see every time the thought pops into her head, and he tells her over and over that she shouldn’t feel responsible, that he’ll be fine once he’s done, that all he needs is her confidence that he can solve this.

The fact that he doubts himself hurts so much.

* * *

 

On the first of March, she wakes up to the sound of shouting.

Concern overcomes grogginess as she heaves herself out of bed, reaching for the blue dressing gown on the back of the door. She knows neither Sherlock nor Rhiannon will care if she trots out in her purple flannel pyjamas, but it’s automatic to throw on the light garment and push up the too-long sleeves before leaving Sherlock’s bedroom. The fabric swishes lightly against the ground as she makes her way through the kitchen, sliding open the stained glass doors.

They’re standing in the centre of the sitting room, Sherlock’s hands doing half of his talking while Rhiannon stands a few feet away looking as professional as possible. Her voice is raised but she’s not flat-out yelling like he is; Molly guesses it’s some sort of tactic to show that she shares his frustration. She admires the way Rhiannon can talk around people and command respect without making it obvious that she’s doing it.

“I don’t know what you’re expecting,” Sherlock snaps, “but I can’t give you anything new if you don’t give me the _one thing_ I’ve been asking for!”

“You know it’s not on me,” Rhiannon explains. “I’ve asked every week. He brushes me off whenever I say I have nothing, I’ve told you that.”

“Demand it, then!”

“You seem to have a vague misunderstanding of my position.”

“You seem to have a vague misunderstanding of mine!”

“I don’t. I know it’s a pain in the ass and I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more I can do than what I’ve already been doing. He won’t give it to me.”

“Is it that bloody hard for him to just tell me where it was uploaded from? I might go out and get it myself.”

“That’s not your call to make.”

“Oh, and I suppose it’s yours?”

“I am the one with the badge.”

“Then use your badge and get me the source!”

“It’s like you think I haven’t—”

The argument is interrupted by the sound of a ringing phone. Rhiannon takes a step back to answer while Sherlock turns away with a huff. He spots Molly standing in the kitchen and his irritated expression turns apologetic as he comes to her, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“I’m sorry for waking you.”

She shakes her head, bringing her hands up to smooth the nonexistent creases in the lapels of his jacket. It’s a calming motion, for her at least. “You shouldn’t take it out on her. It’s not her fault.”

He lets out a heavy sigh and leans against the door frame. “I know.”

“What do you think?”

“There’s no reason for them not to have it by now, so they’re deliberately keeping it away from me. Even though they brought me back specifically _for_ this....”

“Why would they do that?”

“Who knows.”

Rhiannon returns then, clutching her phone. Sherlock makes a quick apology and she nods in thanks before turning to Molly.

“Sorry we woke you,” she says. “But it’s better that you’re up now. You’ll need to get dressed. We’re going to the Met.”

“What’s going on?” Sherlock asks.

“I don’t know. But apparently it’s important.”

* * *

 

His legs are a little too long to be sitting in the back of a Ford Fiesta, even with having pulled the passenger seat as far forward as possible, but he doesn’t particularly care right now. He won’t say it out loud, but as Molly threads her fingers through his where their hands rest over the middle seat, he knows she can tell that he’s nervous.

The fact that the call went through Fletcher instead of coming straight to him is telling. The only way it could be a case where he’s needed would be if Lestrade had phoned Mycroft first, and even then the explanation would have been presented to his runner when she answered her phone. The only reason she should attend with him is if it’s to do with Moriarty. They have information for him, then. He’s close to the end.

He’s not sure if Molly is a necessary attendant for the outing, but he’s glad for her presence. Over the past two months she’s comfortably settled under his skin, and he knows that even if she didn’t need to come, he’d want her around anyway. After two months of staring at the same two walls his self-doubt has become almost crippling, and having her as a crutch has been the difference between buggering on and burning everything that came to him in those damned boxes.

It’s astonishing to consider how deeply he’s grown to love her, especially since it was something he was already vaguely aware of before his fall nearly four years ago. If he had feelings for her then, he must be absolutely smitten now. He doesn’t quite know how to express it, though. He told her once that he loved her, but that was just a fact. She knew it, still knows it, but those three words don’t seem like enough for what she’s become to him. It took some time for him to come to accept the words coming from her even though he _knew_ they were true, but now she says it every night, and he’s so grateful that all he can do is thank her for reminding him.

He almost feels ill as the three of them enter the building, Fletcher leading as he and Molly follow behind, keeping up with her brisk pace. She navigates as if she’s familiar with the place – no reason for her not to be, he supposes – and Sherlock is not surprised when she heads directly for Lestrade’s office, standing in the corner and gesturing for him and Molly to take the two seats on the nearer side of the desk.

Lestrade appears within moments of their arrival, shutting the door and pulling the blinds over the glass wall before moving to his desk. He tosses a folder down and drops heavily into his chair with a sigh before looking up and smiling widely and greeting each of them in turn.

“Been a while since we’ve seen you here, Annie,” he says to Fletcher. “Still doing the books?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“That’s fair. And you,” he says, turning to Sherlock, “I’ve had to find out how you’re doing through John and Molly. Taking to it well, I guess.”

“I’ve been busy,” Sherlock parrots. “I’m assuming you have something for me?”

Lestrade’s good humour drops instantly, replaced by an expression that’s almost dark.

 _So it’s not good news, then,_ he thinks, steeling himself for whatever is coming next.

Picking up the folder and holding it out to his runner, Lestrade warns, “You ought to check it out first. Written up and printed today, it’s completely real.”

Fletcher accepts the folder and opens it carefully. The blood visibly drains from her face as she reads the content in front of her. She looks up at Sherlock with wide eyes, replacing the cover and handing it to him with a still-steady hand.

Molly leans over to see inside as Sherlock opens the folder. The moment he realises precisely what he’s looking at, he feels his stomach drop unpleasantly. By his shoulder, he hears Molly gasp quietly as her own mind catches up.

“Oh my God,” she breathes.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock flips through the documents roughly, his eyes bugging out at every new page. His stomach is sitting somewhere near his feet, and with the way he’s forcing himself to blink against the building pressure in his head, his ears are going to start ringing very soon.

“This is a joke,” he says. “Tell me this is a joke.”

“It’s not a joke,” Lestrade assures him. “It’s not your sense of humour, anyway. Everything’s checked out: info, prints, all of it.”

Turning to Fletcher, Sherlock snaps, “Did you know about this?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

He goes back through the folder again, Molly still leaning into his side. She reaches out and pulls a yellow post-it from the side of the folder – his attention diverted, of course he’d miss something like that – and holds it up for him to read. If his face wasn’t already green, it might very well be turning that colour now.

_Holding 1-3-15 08:30_

He takes the post-it from her hand and looks back to Lestrade, saying, “Show me.”

Clearly uncomfortable but no doubt expecting the request, Lestrade rises from his seat and motions for all three to follow. Outside the office, various pairs of eyes pause on the group as they make their way to the lifts.

“Everybody knows,” Fletcher mumbles from Sherlock’s right, just loud enough for him to hear. She slips her hand behind his and takes the folder from him, opening it to glance through the information again.

“Clearly.” Sherlock takes Molly’s hand and looks down at her, silently asking if she’s okay. He can see that she’s doing her best to walk with her chin up, but she’s too nervous to manage a reassuring smile even for herself. She’s been the one pulling him up by the collar over the past two months; he has no idea how to ease her nerves in this. All he can think to do is squeeze her hand tightly at that moment, and again as they enter the low-lit room two minutes later.

She doesn’t have to admit she’s afraid as she avoids her peripheral, looking anywhere but toward the glass. He may be keeping his expression decidedly blank, but as a small bit of comfort-seeking, his thumb moves lightly over Molly’s hand.

“I want in,” he declares, his voice sounding more confident than he feels. He looks to Lestrade for approval, receiving a hesitant, wary nod in response.

“I’m with you,” Fletcher says, handing the folder back. “This may not be my case as much as it is yours, but I’m still involved.”

“Fine.”

Lestrade leads them to the inside door, unlocking and opening it with a warning look before shutting them inside the room. Fletcher stands by the door with her hands behind her back, taking in the small space. He wants to tell her there’s nothing interesting to see: dark walls, acceptable lighting, mic embedded in the table, cameras in opposite corners, two-way glass mirroring the inside of the room.

He steps forward slowly, assessing. Dropping the folder on the table with a quiet slap, he pulls out the empty chair and calmly takes a seat. His elbows rest on the table as he brings his hands together, palms flat against each other and fingertips pressed to his lips. For a long moment, all he can do is stare.

* * *

 

Molly stands beside Greg on the other side of the glass, eyes on her feet. She’s wringing her hands when he steps closer, putting a reassuring arm around her shoulders.

“It’s all right, Molly,” he says gently. “You can look up. He can’t see you.”

She allows herself two deep breaths before raising her eyes and looking through the glass. Rhiannon is beside the door, eyes moving back and forth alertly. Sherlock and the person across from him are in profile, the table being the only space between them. An involuntary shiver courses through her as she takes in the sight of the other man, her mind recounting all the nights she’s had to put Sherlock back to sleep.

He’s not what she knows, though. The eyes are wrong. They’re not dead and gleeful like they were in the message from December; there’s life in them, fear, anxiety, and she doesn’t have to be Sherlock to see that there’s nothing hiding behind his nervous expression. The face, too. It’s been so long since she’s seen it in real life, but it’s not quite the same as what she remembers. It’s weary, stressed. But everything about him is similar enough that she feels something creeping under her skin, imagining what Sherlock must be experiencing only a few feet away from him. Nearly everything about the man makes her want to scream Jim Moriarty’s name and run.

She’s so certain Sherlock must be thinking the same thing. He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes. Leaning forward, he says quietly, “I see your face every day. It wakes me up every night. How do you feel about that?” His tone and expression are chilling, dangerous, and predatory. It scares her to hear him talking like that, like he’s playing a psychological war game and intimidating his enemy.

 _That’s kind of what he’s doing_ , her little voice reminds her.

“Please,” the other man says, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Please, I swear, I’m not who you think I am. My name is Rich Brook, please, Richard Liam Brook. It’s all in there.” He gestures madly to the folder sitting on the table between them. “I’m not him. Please, Sherlock.”

Molly jumps at Sherlock’s sudden move to his feet, and on the other side of the table, the man claiming to be Not Jim Moriarty pulls back with a look of pure fear. Sherlock looks like he’s about to pounce when Rhiannon steps forward, pointing a gun straight at him.

“Oh my God!” Molly shrieks, wrenching herself free from Greg but freezing before she can take another step to the door.

“Sherlock Holmes!” Rhiannon yells. “I’m authorised to trank you if you don’t sit down immediately and I promise with all the blood in your brain right now you will wake up feeling like shit.” When Sherlock doesn’t budge, she pulls the safety and yells, “ _SIDDOWN! NOW!_ ”

Sherlock lets out a breath in a long hiss, glaring at Rhiannon with a calculating eye before dropping back into his chair. She waits a moment before stowing the gun in her big jacket and returning to her original stance.

The man calling himself Richard Brook sits staring at the pair of them with his mouth hanging open, looking more than stunned. In a croaky voice he says, “It’s in my files. It’s in my statement. Please.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock snaps. He flips to the handwritten page in the folder. “Tell me everything.”

“You’re looking at it right now—”

“Tell me.”

“He’s not always this mean,” Greg says casually. Pointing to Rhiannon, he adds, “She can be.”

On the other side of the glass, Sherlock sits back, crossing his arms and rolling his eyes in impatience when Brook doesn’t speak. He flips to another page in the folder; by the look of it, it’s the fingerprint analysis.

“I personally know the officer who inputted both sets of prints to the system,” Sherlock drawls, “and these don’t even have the same ridge patterns, so it’s obvious you’re not Moriarty. Even the accent has some regional differences.”

 _What’s he doing?_ Molly wonders. She looks squarely at Brook, who sits up a little straighter and appears to relax. Sherlock seems satisfied with the reaction, since he leans back some more and rests entwined hands in his lap.

“So... was that a test?” Molly asks in a whisper. “I mean, to see how he’d respond?”

Greg shrugs, keeping his eyes on the scene. “I did both sets of prints myself and Moriarty’s haven’t been changed – Annie put her own guy on it and everything checked out – so he’s not lying. They’re really not the same person. Creepy though, isn’t it?”

“I don’t like it,” she admits. Looking up, she probes, “How much of this is allowed?”

“Basically none of it. Sherlock’s got a lot of leeway though, and Annie’s got a pretty intimidating badge.”

“Why do you call her Annie? Sherlock doesn’t even refer to her by her name.”

“Sherlock’s not exactly a role model in that respect. He can’t even _remember_ my name, and he’s known me the better part of a decade. And as for her name, well, I've known her a pretty long time. I guess I'm allowed.”

Molly just nods and turns her attention back to the room across the glass. Brook is moving his hands like he’s waiting for an explanation to drop out of the air, and as the seconds pass she sees less and less of Jim Moriarty and more of this unfortunate soul with the same face.

“They say there are at least seven people in the world who look exactly like you,” Brook says excitedly. “It’s weird that we’re both Irish, right? I don’t know if our birthdays match but either way—”

“Shut up,” Sherlock repeats blandly. “Get to the point. Cut out the useless details.”

“Right. Sorry.

“So this is a few years back, about the end of 2010. I got a phone call from this bloke saying he represents someone who has a part for me. I was between jobs then, because I just finished a guest run, and I thought, ‘Sure, why not, I’ve got nothing else going.’ We agreed to a meeting in town—”

“When and where?”

“Round the middle of November, in one of the meeting rooms at the May Fair. Ten or Eleven; one of the smaller ones.”

“Go on.”

“Well, I go to this place, and when I get there, they lead me to this empty boardroom except for one guy. And when I saw his face I went, ‘Holy shit.’ They say you wouldn’t be able to recognise a clone of yourself, but he looked like he could be my long-lost twin or something—”

“Diverting.”

“Sorry. Anyway, he looked like me, only when I shook his hand I noticed he was a bit shorter, and I thought for a second it was going to be some mad scheme where I’d have to pretend to be him in real life or something.

“Basically he gets straight to it, saying he needs to borrow my name for a few months and he’d be sure to clean up his leftovers after he finished – his words. If he was going to make it like nothing happened, then whatever, right? It’s not exactly identity theft, and it was huge money. I don’t know, I couldn’t explain myself even if I tried. It seemed interesting.

“He told me to stay put and keep my head down, indefinitely, which I could do with how much ended up in my account the next day. Honestly, it was enormous.

“A few months later I see him in the papers, on the news, and I see you, and I think, ‘Bloody hell!’ But nothing else came my way, nobody even phoned, I was like a hermit.

“Fast-forward, you’re dead, they’re looking for proof that Richard Brook isn’t real, which was mad to watch from my end, by the way, and when they did that piece about ‘rich brook’ and ‘ _reichen Bach_ ’ and that case you did with the painting, everything he put together just unravelled and suddenly I was the richest no-name on Earth. Not that Big Brother noticed. I mean, I still had to pay my bills....

“When you think about how crazy the guy was, though, it’s barely out of the way to guess that he planted that thing for you to make some kind of joke about my name, right? He said he’d clean up after he finished, and I figured that was it. I went on with life getting the ‘Hey, you look like that Moriarty bloke!’ but really, nothing else happened.

“Then that thing came on TV a couple days after Christmas and I panicked because what if his ‘cleaning up’ meant getting rid of me too? But he’s dead, isn’t he, and I didn’t know what else to do but keep on like I was, so I did.

“And then they found me. I was out for a walk last night and the phones started ringing, like they were following me. Every pay phone I passed was ringing, and by the fifth or sixth one I was so bothered that I got in the booth and answered. And this voice, scary calm and really official, says something like, ‘We know who you are and we’ve had our eyes on you for a while, so on behalf of the British Government I would encourage you to confess,’ and I thought, ‘Holy shit,’ but I kept on, went home, slept on it, and first thing this morning I came in.

“That’s... it, really.”

Sherlock hasn’t moved through the entire tale, still leaning back, still watching Brook with cold eyes. He stays that way for a minute in the silence following Brook’s concluding sentence before standing without a word and walking to the door. Greg leaves Molly’s side to go and open it, and a few moments later, they’re standing in a circle of four beside the viewing glass.

“So?” Greg asks.

“I’m sure he’s a better storyteller with a script,” Sherlock says calmly.

“It was a bit of a clusterfuck with the tenses and the ridiculousness,” Rhiannon agrees, “but with what you’ve given me, it didn’t seem that farfetched.”

Sherlock nods and turns to Molly, standing beside Greg quietly listening. “Are you all right?”

All she can do is give a small shrug. “Are you?”

She didn’t need to ask, she can see he’s agitated by how his eyes move around the room meaninglessly. He still doesn’t realise it’s his most obvious tell for looking for an excuse to leave a discussion. After a few seconds of needless searching, he lets out a long puff of a sigh.

“There’s something I need to clear up.”

“Need any help?” Greg offers.

“No.”

With that, Sherlock exits the room, brushing past Rhiannon on his way out. Molly is less upset than worried about him leaving without any acknowledgement, and when she looks over at Rhiannon, the other woman is already tapping away at her phone with a crease in her brow. The phone chimes almost as soon as she drops her arm after sending her text.

“Something wrong?” Greg asks, looking between the pair of them expectantly.

“Yes,” Rhiannon says flatly, reading the incoming message. Without looking up, she reaches for Molly’s arm and pulls her toward the door. “Come on.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small warning: a bit of blood and a bit more swearing coming your way.

Early on a Sunday afternoon, there can only be one place to find the British Government. He’s always been disgusted by the sheer pretention that oozed out of the walls of the place, but as Sherlock throws himself out of the little navy blue Fiesta, reminding himself to apologise for swiping Fletcher’s key and stealing her car, and walks up to the Diogenes Club, he tries to keep his focus. He’s only missing the last two pieces of the puzzle, and he knows Mycroft is holding both of them. He’s going to close the book on James Moriarty today.

To the naked eye, the explanation would seem absolutely mad and nonsensical. But with his boxes full of suddenly useful information, each little piece corresponded to something, and he was able to create a map that he could conceivably follow.

The Reichenbach case always did seem too good to be true, so he’d always suspected some ulterior motive for the thief who had not done a single thing with the painting of the Falls. Moriarty had found Brook by then – he’d check out their relation sometime, it was far too coincidental that they happened to be from the same area – and had manufactured the case especially for him, as he was already putting together the fairy tale leading up to their final confrontation.

He had used Brook’s identity to falsify his own. His network was huge, and it would take no effort to get someone in to break links, change bits of information, and buy off anyone necessary to make it seem like Brook was a complete fabrication. Tough for the actor, but again, he was bought off, for an apparently _enormous_ sum, so it wasn’t as if he was living rough after the fact. Moriarty left the strand for the officials to slowly unwind after Sherlock’s “death”.

 _Oh, how unfortunate we’ve only discovered it_ now _, far too late after the great detective’s suicide!_

Moriarty had cleaned up well. He hadn’t counted on Brook showing his face again.

He stomps through the doors, making as much noise as possible as he turns onto the sitting room. It’s bizarre to know that people get together for the sole purpose of ignoring each other, but he doesn’t let himself dwell on this absurd place.

“Mycroft!” he barks, spotting his brother in a chair by the fireplace.

He looks up from his paper with a scowl, and with an unnecessarily dramatic sigh, folds it up and drops it on the side table next to the cushy chair. Sherlock turns on his heel and stalks toward the study, knowing his brother will be following.

He’s pacing the room when Mycroft enters, closing the doors behind him.

“Honestly, Sherlock,” he says, “you could show _some_ respect for this place.”

“Save it. How long have you known about Brook?”

Mycroft glances toward the ground, moving across the room to lean against the large empty desk.

“Ah.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, waiting for his answer. Backing Mycroft into a corner took no effort this time around, so he’s certain that he won’t be leaving the room with any questions.

“We... discovered Brook not long after the message came out,” Mycroft says, looking somewhere over Sherlock’s shoulder. “The message was uploaded from his hometown in Ireland, off some sort of queue on a network computer, and it didn’t take long to track him down from that. We’ve been watching him a little less than two months.”

Sherlock begins pacing again, turning the puzzle pieces, making them fit. “You know he didn’t upload it, though. You had it long before then, didn’t you?” He stops to stare his brother down, knowing exactly the course they’re following. He knows Moriarty contacted Mycroft on more than one occasion. The message wasn’t for him, then; it was meant to taunt his brother.

Mycroft taps his hands against the desk behind him, looking off to the side momentarily.

_Gotcha._

“He sent that exact message to me, in that form, before we started planning your false demise. Having it sent over the entire television network over England was... more of a shock. He had some large coding minds to set it up. They were some of the first on your list; they’ve already confessed.”

Sherlock nods and resumes walking back and forth in the room. All the pieces fell together evenly. There’s only one thing left he wants to know.

If he knew everything the whole time, if the message was for the government power and not the detective attached to Moriarty’s name, why give him the information and then drop the ball two months later, thus giving him the opportunity to wrap it all up? There was no reason to even bother—

It clicks, then, and in that moment of clarity, Sherlock sees everything turn red. He turns to his brother, standing calmly not seven feet away, feeling pure anger bubbling up from his feet.

“You kept me here,” he says through gritted teeth, “for crowd control.”

“Sherlock—”

“You made me burn myself dry, made me stretch out to nowhere, made me question my abilities, as _insurance_ for the public! ‘Don’t worry, England, Sherlock’s on the case! It’s taking him a while, but he’ll solve it, don’t worry!’”

“You must understand—”

He bounds forward, interrupting his brother with a fist to the face. It lands to the side of his nose and he hears a crack as the blood immediately starts flowing. Mycroft moves his hand up to hold his nose futilely, looking up at him with a beseeching expression. His own hand is burning; his fingers connected unpleasantly with cheekbone, but he doesn’t care.

He doesn’t give a flying fuck.

“YOU MADE ME STARE AT HIS FACE EVERY DAY!” he shouts, standing over his withering older brother. “IN MY HOME! IN MY HEAD! I WAKE UP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT WITH HIM IN MY HEAD! YOU USED ME FOR MOLLIFICATION, TURNED MY WORK INTO A _FARCE!_ ”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says weakly, trying to avoid putting inside pressure on his broken nose, “please, listen to me—”

“Fuck you.”

And with that, he turns away, pulling both study doors open, presenting the bloodied Mycroft Holmes to the club and its security team as he pushes through the small crowd.

He thinks he spots a cab stopping behind him as he gets in the Fiesta, turning on the engine and pulling away with no destination in mind.

* * *

 

“My car, that’s my car!” Rhiannon shouts as she springs out of the cab, chasing after the swiftly receding hatchback for a dozen steps. She throws her hands up when it turns out of sight, running them through her hair as she walks back to the taxi. Her fingers get stuck on a knot and she yanks her hands away with a huff. “Wait here, please?” she says to the driver before jogging into the building they’re parked beside.

Molly sits in the back of the cab shaking like a leaf, fingers pressed to lips as she tries to slow her tears and calm herself. She has next to no idea what’s going on apart from it having something to do with Mycroft Holmes at this stage, but given that Sherlock just stole Rhiannon’s car instead of getting a cab like he prefers, she’s more than worried. She’s terrified that something might happen and Sherlock will get hurt. Or he’ll hurt himself.

A few minutes later Rhiannon sprints out of the building and back into the taxi with a noticeably redder hand. Molly pales when she simply rubs it off on the leg of her trousers, calmly explaining their next steps.

“He says he’ll be going to one of his bolt-holes. Maybe with a stop to drop the car. I hope he drops the car.... Do you have any idea where he’d go?”

“How should I know?” Molly asks, more aggressively than she’d like. “You’re the one with the list.”

“Not a very good list when we need to find him ten minutes ago....” She pauses in thought while Molly looks on, frozen. “Would John Watson know?”

“I— Maybe.”

“Call him.” She leans forward and gives the driver Sherlock’s address before falling back with a sigh. “Home might be a good start.”

* * *

 

Mary sits with her feet up, a well-worn library book propped on her large belly. John had given her a look when she waddled up to the counter with a pile of spy books to check out, and he’d laughed, actually laughed, when she said her interest was in the accuracy of the plots. He had nothing to say, him with his _trilogy in five parts_ that he enjoys so much.

He’s in the armchair pretending to play on the iPad. The bigger she gets, the more she can feel him watching, as if he expects her to eject a baby at any given moment, even though she’s still got a couple more weeks to go. It’s not something she particularly minds when she’s in a good mood. There are times when she’s had enough of being a boat and wants to just have their baby, and on those days, she wants to challenge him to gape at her so she has an excuse to bite someone’s head off.

It’s a hormonal roller coaster.

She turns a page with her thumb as John’s phone starts vibrating against the table. There’s no way she can reach it without making the effort to stand. John quickly sets down the iPad and picks up his mobile, reading the caller ID with a frown.

“Something wrong?” she asks.

“I hope not,” he replies, tapping the green button and bringing the phone to his ear. “Hello?” From a few feet away, Mary can hear the shrill tones of the voice on the other end. John puts a hand up and opens his mouth a few times, trying to get a word in. “Molly, Molly, slow down, I can’t hear you. Are you with anybody? Okay, can you pass me over?”

Mary marks her page and tosses the book on the table. There’s a pause where John looks to her with wide eyes before he’s back staring in no general direction, listening to the voice on the other end of the line. His expression becomes more and more alarmed as a minute ticks by.

“Shit,” he mutters, leaning with his elbows on his knees. “Wait, hang on a second....” Pulling the phone away from his face, he presses the loudspeaker button and places it on the table. “Okay, go.”

“He took off in my car just as we got there.” The neutral-accented female voice is completely unfamiliar. “I have a list of his bolt-holes, but it’s in no specific order and honestly none of them seem likely right now.”

“Are the empty houses on your list?” Mary asks, immediately entering the fray. She may only be on the B-side of the conversation but she’s heard enough to know something’s happened with Sherlock.

“Where?”

“23 and 24 Leinster Gardens, beside the Henry VIII Hotel.”

“He’s the only one who can get in there,” John explains, nodding emphatically. “He owns them, technically. If he’s tossing his marbles, I wouldn’t put it against him to hide somewhere dark and quiet.”

“How far is it from Baker Street?”

John puffs out his cheeks and says, “Ten minutes driving, at a guess? Are you going there first?”

“To see if he’s dropped the car,” Mary says at the same time as the woman on the phone.

“I’ll meet you at Leinster Gardens,” John announces.

“Thanks.”

Mary navigates herself to her feet the instant the line disconnects, ignoring John’s protests. She may be heavily pregnant but she’d rather wait in the car than sit at home when her daughter’s godfather is in trouble, and she tells her husband as much.

He doesn’t argue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters after this. It's getting angsty in here.
> 
> As usual, thank you for reading, and for the comments and kudos. Feedback is my food source.


	10. Chapter 10

The majority of the drive to Baker Street from the Diogenes Club is spent in silence, with Molly watching the little red numbers on the fare counter as they slowly climb higher and higher and Rhiannon tapping occasionally on her phone. Most of the time, the other woman watches the city pass by outside the taxi’s window, and whenever Molly looks over out of the corner of her eye, she wonders what the runner could possibly be thinking about.

As the cab turns onto Baker Street, the little Ford parked neatly outside the door of 221, Rhiannon lets out a wry chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” Molly asks, unable to keep the bitterness out of her tone. She’s stressed and worried and scared and the laugh causes more than a little offense.

“Have you ever heard of a malaphor? It's a combination of idioms,” Rhiannon says calmly. “‘I’ll burn that bridge when I get to it.’ Means that no matter what the upcoming situation is, you know you’re going to mess it up.”

 _Thanks for that_ , Molly’s little voice snaps.

“Basically, I just realised he might have taken the key with him when he left.”

Molly snaps around to look at the blond woman, feeling another surge of distress at her situation. Rhiannon simply shrugs apologetically, handing a few bills to the driver as they pull up beside the Fiesta and thanking him as they get out of the cab.

Warily approaching the Fiesta, Molly tries the driver’s door, very nearly swearing at the car when she discovers it’s locked. She runs around the vehicle trying every other door as Rhiannon circles it slowly, looking behind the wheels and underneath to see if the fob is stashed anywhere.

After a second, thorough search and even checking inside 221 – Mrs. Hudson insisted the door didn’t open again after they left – Molly starts to feel sick. While Rhiannon paces impatiently in the road, waiting for another cab to show up, she encourages herself to think outside the box.

Sherlock knew they were following him, hence his leaving the car outside his home, in a memorable place. He wouldn’t completely cut himself off from help.... Or would he? He’d know they’d think to call John, so he’d know there wouldn’t be any point. He’s relying on them to follow him, to find him and help him. He has to be.

He didn’t want anybody else to steal the car, so he locked it. He didn’t want to _not_ be found, so he would have put the key nearby. But where?

Her eyes fall on the last unchecked opening near the rear of the car: the fuel door. With a single finger she pulls the rounded door open, revealing a flat, unassuming fuel cap and, perched safely on the ledge at the door’s hinge, the little black key fob.

She calls out that she’s found the key as she unlocks the doors with the click of a button, sliding into the passenger’s seat and starting the car in time for Rhiannon to wrench the driver’s door open and take her own place. Within seconds they’re on their way, and as the car moves ever closer to their destination, Molly feels her confidence grow. It’s backwards, but she’ll take it.

“I’m not going in with you,” Rhiannon warns. “His brother’s been psychologically torturing him through me, so I doubt he’ll see me as a friendly.”

 _It’s not a war_ , Molly wants to argue. “That’s fine.”

“I’ve got a headset in the glove compartment—”

“I’m not going to have a conversation with him that’s anything but private.”

“You won’t even do it so I can keep an ear out if you need help?”

“I won’t need help.”

Her sharpness is silencing, and Rhiannon nods, turning all of her attention back to the road.

The next fifteen minutes feel like an eternity, but eventually they turn onto Leinster Gardens and pull up nose-to-nose with the Watsons' car. She spots Mary hauling herself out with little help from John, making her big belly seem like a more minor inconvenience than it probably is.

"Are you sure it's here?" Rhiannon asks seriously as Molly accepts a pair of hugs from the couple. "It's a bit open."

"The door's a bit open," Mary replies insistently, nodding back to the building with painted windows. Molly doesn't have to squint to see the door in question, resting closed on the jamb, looking suggestive in the light of day but drawing no attention from occasional passers-by.

"I guess I should go in, then," she murmurs, and before anybody else can try to tell her what to do, she marches toward the house.

She feels electric, fingers tingling as she stands in front of the door, glancing over her shoulder to make sure there won't be anyone to question her entering an empty building. With one last look to the three people she knows are watching, she pushes the door open and slips inside, resting it back against the jamb as she turns to face the darkness of the narrow corridor.

She fishes out her phone, turning on the camera's light to use as a torch. The sound of her breathing – terribly shaky, but she can't help that now – and the light padding of her shoes on concrete are all she hears. There's a hum behind her ears, a loud nothing, threatening to make her dizzy. Now that she's here, she wants nothing more than to be back at Baker Street, curled up on the sofa under a blanket with Sherlock asleep behind her. The thought presents a mixture of courage and fear.

She presses on slowly, one hand on the wall and the other holding her phone out in front of her like a dog's leash. Letting her fingertips float over a compact alcove, she soon reaches a wall, turning the corner and holding her light up. It fades before reaching the wall at the other end, but from what she can see, there are no spaces or doors to either side of the passage.

"Sherlock?" she whispers into the dark. No answer drifts back to her, and a few steps in, she speaks again. "Sherlock, are you here?”

She thinks she hears a rustle up ahead, but her meagre light isn't doing much to cut through the alarmingly complete blackness of the place. There are lamps overhead, but she must have skipped over the switch when she came in. Her feet move a bit quicker, but just as quietly, as she walks forward. The empty hum in her ears is making her head throb, but she refuses to pause and close her eyes against it.

Her heart leaps when the light falls on what at first looks like a large heap of more blackness; two more steps and the light from her phone finally flattens, better illuminating the form of a body sitting on the floor in the corner, leaning against the far wall. It moves when she approaches, making itself smaller, and as she takes the last few steps and drops to her knees, she recognises the shape of Sherlock curled up in his coat.

She has enough of a mind to place her phone on the ground with the LED facing upward, and although it barely brightens the area, it'll have to be enough.

Sherlock is wrapped in his coat with his shoulders hunched, facing away from her. That would be enough of an antisocial cue on a regular day and she would leave him be, but now, she knows she can’t let him stay here. He shouldn't be alone right now. He should be at home, where he can rest his ear over her heart as she cards her hands through his hair, listening to him mumbling out his stress in one long stream.

Instead of being in that warmth, they're sitting on the cold hard floor in the dark of an empty house.

She reaches out to him, running her hand up and down his arm over his coat. A short minute later he starts to relax, and not long after, he turns so he's sitting flat against the wall, looking at her with sad, tired eyes. It's not too dark that she can't see the puffy redness, and her chest aches when she looks at him.

If she had an idea of what she was going to say, it left her some time ago. All she can think to do is crawl over his legs and wrap her arms around him, pulling him close like she's done after every nightmare. He doesn't resist, holding onto her even more tightly and resting his head in the crook of her shoulder. His breathing is ragged and he shivers with every exhale, and soon she feels the moisture as it runs off the spot where his cheek meets her neck. She rocks from side to side gently, shushing him like she would a child.

Even with knowing how he views the importance of his work, she can't come close to understanding the pain he's in. Seeing the face every day, waking from nightmares every morning, learning it was all for nothing, and topping it off with being betrayed and used by his own brother... It must hurt so much.

She pulls back a little, until she can place her hands on his cheeks. "Talk to me, Sherlock," she says gently.

"It's not even my punishment," he mutters hoarsely. He lets his head rest against the wall as he closes his eyes and swallows hard. "It was all pointless. Mycroft and Moriarty, they made a joke of my work and it'll be everywhere by Wednesday, and it's not even my punishment."

"Your work isn't everything you are, love."

He snaps to attention, eyes bright. "I don't have anything else. There's nothing to fall back on. The work _is_ everything, and I won't even have that. I just..." He squeezes his eyes shut, digging in with the heels of his hands as he shakes his head. "I want everything to go away, I want it all to stop and it just _won’t_.”

"Don't you dare," Molly says, pulling him back in. Her own tears are flowing now. "Don't you dare talk like that."

They're crying quietly on each other's shoulders, both for his sake. She doesn't know how many minutes pass with the pair of them hanging on for dear life, but some time later, she feels herself become restful out of exhaustion, and Sherlock loosens his grip on her coat and sits back again.

“What are they going to do with me?” he asks. “They won’t just let me go. What are they going to do with me?”

Molly folds Sherlock’s coat collar down to better see his face. She doesn’t like how he’s trying to hide behind it. “I don’t know, Sherlock. We’ll have to wait and see.”

“I don’t want to leave,” he pleads.

“I know you don’t.”

“I can’t leave you. I can’t leave John and Mary and Rosamund.”

“Shh, it’ll be okay.”

“It won’t.”

“Calm down, Sherlock,” Molly implores, bringing her hands up to his cheeks again and looking straight into his eyes, darkened by the dilation of his pupils in the dim light. “It won’t do you any good to panic. Just breathe for me, okay? In, out. Come on, love, you can do it. In, out.”

She repeats the words slowly until he’s following the commands, inhaling and exhaling deeply on a rhythm. When she knows he won’t simply stop, she takes her hands away and falls silent, letting him keep time on his own as he closes his eyes and lets his head drop back against the wall. He’s quiet for a while, just breathing, before he opens his eyes again, looking at Molly beseechingly.

"When I was a kid, I wanted to be like Mycroft. He was the smartest person in the world, and I wanted him to be proud of me, to say I was smart too, instead of calling me stupid all the time."

Molly feels a lump in her throat, warning her that she's ready to start sobbing. She nods in understanding, encouraging Sherlock to continue.

"I grew up, and I knew it wouldn't happen, so I did my best to spite him at every opportunity. He said the work would fail and I would do better in a proper field where my education would actually be worth something. He actually said that to me!" She can see how the words must have insulted him, the way his eyes flash with anger. If she’d ever heard someone say her own education and career choice weren’t useful, she’d have stabbed them with a scalpel.

"I made a point of doing it and loving it and making it everything. I made myself Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, and he couldn't say a damn thing. But I don't want to be him anymore," he says quietly. "If he can still make a mockery of it, I don't want to be that."

"Whatever he says about you isn't important," Molly assures him. "You're human. You're someone's son, someone's friend, someone's love, before you're Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. It's a living, not a life."

His nose scrunches as he says, "I'm not sure what that's supposed to mean."

Molly feels herself smile as she rests her forehead against his. "It means, silly man, that when you're _working_ , you're the detective. When you're visiting with John and Mary, or complaining at the TV, or hitting my bum with the towel when you're drying the dishes, or kissing me goodbye in the morning, you're _you_. The people who love you are here for _you_. The detective is your job. _He_ isn't what makes you clever or kind; that's all you. You're a good man, Sherlock. When Mycroft looks back at the damage he's done, he'll see how wrong he was, and you'll come out of this in one piece. Better than before, even."

Molly waits in silence for Sherlock to say something. She didn't even have to think about what to tell him; she knew everything to be true, and all she had to do was speak. Somewhere, her shot nerves found their way back to life, and as she sits with Sherlock now, she feels relaxed and assured. It's almost over, she's certain.

She's not sure why she's surprised when Sherlock's lips touch hers. It's soft at first, a light brush, but he quickly brings his hands up to cradle her face as he kisses her deeply, bringing her as close as possible, taking as if he's trapped underwater and she's his source of air. And she gives, wishing against every moment they separate to fill their lungs before diving back in. Her arms are around his shoulders and she’s pressed right up against him as he kisses her like he’ll never get the chance to do it again.

All too soon he's retreating, leaving her lightheaded as their breaths mingle in the tiny space between them while they sit with their noses touching.

"God, I love you," Sherlock breathes. "I hope you know that. Like the million times I never said, I adore you."

"Go on," Molly says with cheek.

To her continued surprise, he obliges with a smile. "I love you like the nights in the country where it's so quiet you can hear the Earth turning. Like the days in the city with the endless noise of life. Like the salt water on your cheeks when you've cried from laughing too hard....” He pauses then, leaning back with narrowed eyes. “That all sounds vaguely familiar. Did I get it from somewhere?”

Molly shakes her head, feeling a giggle bubble up as she yanks Sherlock back for a firm kiss and a tight hug. “I have no idea. But I love you too.”

He hums in response as he rests on her shoulder and burrows past her coat to place a light kiss on the side of her neck. It’s the last sound either of them makes for some time. They remain silent in the dark until Molly’s phone chirps and dies, the torch having leeched all the life out of the already low battery. It’s so dark without it that she’s unable to see the wall she knows is less than a foot away from her face.

The way Sherlock is resting against her, she wonders if he might fall asleep, given how they’ve once again started swaying in their embrace. She asks in a whisper if he’d like to leave, since John and Mary and Rhiannon are waiting outside for them.

He mumbles a negative after a moment’s thought. “I’d like a few more minutes to confront my existential crisis,” he says, his voice muffled and his breath tickling her skin, “if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Molly says with an invisible smile, running her fingers through his hair as he nestles himself more comfortably against her. “Take all the time you need.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd originally intended for this to be a lot darker, but things changed. For the better.
> 
> It's wrapping up very soon. My appreciation for the comments and kudos and for you being here reading this is endless. Thank you.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, the last chapter, the sort-of-epilogue, the wrapping-up. It's been fun sharing this brain-child with you.

Fourteen days since Leinster Gardens. It doesn’t feel like fourteen days. It feels like five minutes, as if he’s just settled into his chair after the stress of the afternoon pulled the last ounce of energy from him. He’s tired all the time now, it seems. Everybody around him agrees that he’s simply recovering, and he’ll find his feet again soon. It’s all blurry at the moment: he doesn’t know how to feel about living at half speed, doesn’t know what he’ll do when the gears start turning quickly again.

He spins the thick white envelope mindlessly in his hands, middle fingers putting pressure on opposite corners so the paper twirls smoothly. He’s already opened it, already read the thanks and the pardon and the promise that they would contact him if they needed his services in the future.... He’s come close to throwing the thing in the fire countless times, denouncing it as fake for its simplicity compared to all the trouble the case put him through, since Fletcher handed it to him two Wednesdays ago.

The newspaper is still on the floor between his chair and the fireplace, waiting to be ripped up and thrown into the flames. The bolded headline _Richard Brook Was Real!_ _Sherlock Holmes Unmasks Fauxriarty_ shouts up at him every time he glances over. The caption, only slightly smaller, reminds him that Brook is currently sitting with conspiracy and fraud charges in his lap and no money to speak of.

Considering how little he actually had to do with that part of the case, Sherlock still doesn’t believe he earned the _Get out of Jail Free_ card the powers-that-be handed to him in paper form.

Mycroft had sent Fletcher to the meeting of the big bosses in his stead. Somehow, she managed to sway them into concluding that the severe mental distress caused by the case – her words – should be his penance for Christmas Day. According to her, they handed over the letter to deliver as her final run, and she parted ways with her decade-long employment under the British Government quietly.

Fletcher was restless and anxious upon delivering the letter, believing he would call her out on her role in his stress-induced deterioration and throw her out without another word. Nothing was her fault; she was equally in the dark throughout the entire investigation. Apart from through her, Sherlock hasn’t had any contact with his brother all month, and he’s quite comfortable having every intention to keep it that way. He doesn’t need Mycroft and his toxicity.

As for the newly-unemployed runner, the request he made seemed obvious: with John and Mary soon to be busy being new parents and Molly working long days, he would need someone to assist him in his work on occasion. She had given an immediate and unconditional yes and left him with all of her contact details for whenever he’d need her.

The only hurdle so far has been that he hasn’t taken any cases.

Most of his time is spent thinking about how, since he started, the work hasn’t simply been brain food for him. He could do nearly anything with his mind, and in the end, he’d chosen to use it to help people directly. He can’t help having no energy to put into analysis, no will to read people, and no interest in listening to their stories these days. Something is stopping him, some wall, and he needs to find a way around it. It’s not enough to pick up the violin to float away, although his melody for Molly is by far his favourite calming tune....

He’s yanked back into the present by the sound of someone speaking.

“What?”

“I said, are you sure?” Molly’s voice comes to him from the kitchen, followed by the woman herself, clad in her purple pyjamas.

“About what?”

She stops in front of him, looking down with her hands on her hips and a smile fighting to appear on her face. “Honestly, Sherlock, it’s like you can’t hear me if you can’t see me.”

“I can hear you. I wasn’t listening.” The parts click into place as he moves back through the conversation they may or may not have been having, trying to find where he left off. He tosses the envelope to the floor and holds a hand out to Molly, guiding her forward so she’s sitting on his lap with his arm around her waist.

“You’re supposed to pick up the car tomorrow morning but you haven’t packed,” she says patiently. “Are you still sure you want to go?”

Sherlock looks down at his free hand as Molly covers it with her own two. He gives himself a moment to consider, just one more minute to add to the hours he’s spent thinking about it.

“My parents’ house will be empty until the beginning of June. I want to go somewhere familiar.”

“But do you _want_ to go is what I’m asking.”

For once, he doesn’t hesitate before nodding. Looking up at Molly, he says with complete honesty, “I need to get out of here. I know I’ll miss meeting the baby, and your absence will be painful, but I need radio silence for a while. On my terms.”

She smiles warmly and leans in to place a kiss on his forehead.

“She’ll be here when you get back from your holiday. So will I.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, is there anything you’d like to do before you leave me for a month?”

Sherlock’s lips quirk up at that, blooming into a crooked smile as he looks up at Molly, beautiful as ever even with her bed hair and shapeless sleepwear. He’s communicated his feelings for her in various ways, with one glaring exception, one specific expression sitting at the back of his mind while he emptied everything about the case from the front. He found his drive somewhere in the clutter of the information he’d shoved into the corners, and it was something they’d discussed already....

“Actually,” he says, grinning at her wolfishly, “there was one experiment I’d like your help with. It’s rather... tactile.”

Molly’s eyes widen as she catches on, her eyes darkening ever so subtly. “I would be glad to assist,” she replies. “I’ll just fetch the PPE, shall I?”

“Lovely.”

He stays in his chair as he watches her go, his smile growing when she turns around to walk backwards, looking coy only for a moment before she steps out of sight. There’s a fire building, fed by her, and he feels another rush of warmth as he thinks back to all she’s done for him. He can’t help all the times he didn’t know how to thank her for how she loves him and all the chances he’s missed to show how he loves her, but with all the time they’ll have after he’s figured himself out, he knows he’ll make a point of it in the future.

With a contented sigh he stands, checking the doors are shut as he follows Molly’s path. She’s waiting for him at the end of the short corridor, leaning against the wall just outside the bedroom. Guiding her inside, Sherlock pulls her in for a kiss as he closes the door on the rest of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it. I'm hoping to be back soon - maybe even following up on this story. I'll figure it out when I get there.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading, and for the comments and kudos. I'm tremendously grateful for all the feedback. Not only does it raise my productivity levels, but it makes me feel fantastic.


End file.
